


Sherlolly Shorts by Mae

by Maejones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly short, probable swearing, sherlolly prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2018-04-10 21:47:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 36,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4409033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maejones/pseuds/Maejones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I have written and will write shorts which I will add to this now and then. Here are a few to start. Every chapter is essentially its own, independent story.</p><p>Disclaimer: I don't own any Sherlock characters! This is a work of fanfiction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Avoidance

**Author's Note:**

> This first short is a Sherlock meets Molly via the elevators at Bart's.

**Monday, 1:15 pm:**

“Hold the elevator, please!”

Sherlock looked up and frowned. The small woman coming towards him carrying a tray full of vials was entirely too …  _cute?_  He pressed his lips together and quickly punched the ‘ **> I<**’ button several times. He timed the response in his head as he let out a breath. She would need to take five more steps to reach the elevator but it would close on her fourth. He was saved! There was no way on this planet it was a good idea for him to share a confined space with someone who had inspired such sentimental drivel. Cute! What was wrong with him?

Her lips parted in surprise as she realized he wasn’t going to hold the doors for her. They turned down in a pout and for some reason, he couldn’t take his eyes off them as the door slid closed. He puffed a breath from his own lips. Thank God he’d avoided that!

**Tuesday, 10:45 am:**

“Hold the doors! Please! Oh, I’m in a hurry!” 

That voice! It was too sweet. It made him think of scones with clotted cream and too much jam. He found himself looking at her mouth again as if there was something he could lick away … 

Greg Lestrade looked quizzically at Sherlock as he jammed at the ‘close’ button.

“Wait, you’re not going to let her in?”

“No, dear God, look at her!” Sherlock muttered with a flick of his fingers.

Greg glanced out of the elevator. “What? She’s cute!”

“Exactly!”

**Wednesday, 3:22 pm:**

“You! You! I know you can see me in there. Hold the doors please!”

Sherlock danced back and forth on his feet. Even if he pressed the button right then, she’d still make it. He looked up at the ceiling in the lift. Now, he wasn’t overly concerned with what most people thought about him, but for some reason, he did not want her to think he was the kind of lunatic who would escape out the roof hatch of a lift just to avoid sharing a ride with her. He exhaled a heavy breath. What to do?

Just as she stepped in, he spun out and away from the elevator. Her brow twisted up in confusion as this time, the doors shut but their positions were reversed.

**Thursday, 9:31 am:**

She stopped so suddenly that her ponytail swung forwards. She pursed her lips, waved a hand in his direction and turned on her heel.

“I’ll catch the next one!” She called back over her shoulder.

**Friday, 5:55 pm:**

“Oh, Christ! You scared me!”

Sherlock glanced over to discover the diminutive lab technician who he’d been avoiding all week. He then looked quickly with eyes that felt a little too large for his skull at the elevator doors as they closed and trapped them together. Hell! He folded his arms behind his back. He couldn’t talk to her because he knew that somewhere in the dusty, spare rooms of his mind palace, there was space for a new inhabitant.

“Um, hello,” she said shyly. “I’m Molly Hooper, by the way. You’re that consulting detective, right? Sherlock Holmes?”

He looked at her out of the corner of her eyes and then quickly looked away. He heard sweeping between his ears. Damn, his internal Mrs. Hudson was tidying!

“Stop it!” He muttered.

“What?” Molly asked. “I’m sorry, did I do something wrong? Have I offended you in some way?”

“Don’t … don’t apologize. It’s irritating, I mean. It’s irritating because it’s not necessary. You haven’t done anything wrong and yes, I am Sherlock Holmes.”

He looked at her fully then because he couldn’t resist anymore. The image of her in a ridiculously over sized lab coat burned into his mind. Molly Hooper. His mind-phantom Mrs. Hudson suppressed a smile and winked.

_“Should I get her some biscuits to welcome her? Oh, it’ll be so nice to have another woman in here. It gets to be an awful mess.”_


	2. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives Molly a wildly inappropriate gift.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

Sherlock frowned. His eye flinched as a thought seemed to skip through his mind.

“Don’t allow yourself to be ‘sneaked’ up on then,” he snapped.

Molly glowered at him. She was not in the mood for his brand of derision.

“What are you doing here anyways?” She asked. “Shouldn’t you be out saving the world from Moriarty or something? You did see that broadcast yesterday, didn’t you? Don’t you have all manner of important things to do?”

“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”

Molly blinked up at him several times. She gave her head a little shake. Did she hear him correctly?

“Wh-what?”

He lifted his chin as he stared down at her. He reached into his pocket without breaking eye contact and then set something down on the lab bench.

“If Moriarty is truly back, you’ll need protection. This is for you.”

Her eyes slid sideways. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw what he had laid down.

“Dear Lord! Is that a pistol?”

He pushed the small black and silver handgun towards her. “Hmm, how very observant you are, Dr. Hooper.”

She backed away from the bench. Good God, her sporting a firearm illegally? She could get into all manner of trouble with the law. What was he thinking?

“N-no, thank you. I mean, um, no, just no! I don’t need a gun.”

His brow wrinkled. “I beg to differ. If Moriarty is alive and he’s learned you were involved in my escape from death, he might come after you. This may save your life.”

“I am more liable to shoot myself than anyone else. I don’t even know how to use a gun. I’ve never even handled one!”

He looked a bit downcast then as he glanced down at the bench. “I thought you would like it. I spent a lot of time researching this particular model. It’s lightweight, easy to conceal in a purse, has very little kickback … um … it seemed the perfect fit for you.”

His finger trailed along the barrel. Molly chewed her lip. One would think she rejected a gift of flowers!

“I-I’m sure it’s very nice, Sherlock, it’s just-”

“I could teach you!” His head lifted suddenly. “Please, just hold it a moment. You’ll see there’s nothing to fear.”

He picked it up and circled around to stand at her rear. Her breath caught as, in the next instant, she was practically embraced from behind. He was so close, his chin brushed her hair and she felt his warmth along her entire backside. He lifted her right arm and then slapped the gun in her hand.

“First things first,” his breaths fanned her hair. “Stance.”

She was so shocked, she could barely move. She felt like a marionette in his arms. A knee nudged her legs apart and she almost swooned. Her legs quivered and she bumped back into him as she tried to steady herself.

“Are you well, Molly? Handling a gun isn’t making you feel faint, is it?”

She wagged her head. “N-No!”

“But you’re vibrating,” he murmured.

If she didn’t think she’d accidentally pop herself, she’d wave at her face to try to cool it down. She gulped in some air and breathed out again. Her breaths felt heavy and humid from her chest.

“I’m f-fine,” she whispered.

His hand covered hers. “Now, pull the trigger to get a feel for it. Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”

Molly squeezed the trigger and the gun clicked rather anti-climatically.

“It’s um, very light,” she said softly.

She felt his fingers caress her own. “Your hands are rather … delicate.”

What followed was a really awkward yet thrilling moment. Her arms dropped and with them, so did his. He didn’t step away. Rather, he remained at her back. She thought she could hear the pace of his breathing change. She could definitely feel the difference through the strands of her hair; it was slower, longer, deeper. When she couldn’t take it anymore, she turned to face him.

Her lips parted as she peered up at him. His face was shadowed, his gaze intense. His pale eyes scanned over her features deliberately.

“I think the next step is that I should take you … to practice shooting with live rounds, that is. It would be better if you were more accustomed to handling it. Would you like that?” 

She licked her lips. She had no intention of keeping the ridiculous gift but she was game for more of this.

 “T-To learn how to handle it? Um yes, I think I would like that … v-very much.”


	3. Billiards.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly and the gang play pool. Sherlock gets jealous, lol.

“Oh look at that, The table’s just come free. Anyone up for a game?” Mary asked with a grin. “It’s been ages since I played.”

When no one immediately answered, she stuck her lip out. “Oh, come on, it’s the first night I’ve been away from the wee one and I want to make the most of it.”

Sherlock looked down at the two empty pint glasses in front of her. “I thought that’s what you were doing.”

“Quiet you! Does no one want to play?” She implored to the table.

Greg Lestrade looked away as he slugged his ale. Molly twiddled with her straw. Finally, John sighed and replied.

“Erm, it’s just that. Well, Sherlock always wins. He clears the table as soon as he gets hold of a cue.”

Sherlock lifted his chin. “Really, John, you’re such a poor sport. It’s middle school Newtonian physics and basic geometry. If you would only apply some simple reasoning-”

“And he’s a dick about it!” John cut him off.

“Well, he doesn’t have to play. He can just observe as he so loves to do. We’re oddly numbered anyways. We can play pairs. Girls against boys. What do you say, Molly? Want to show Greg and John how it’s done?”

Molly shrugged. “Sure. Although, I-I’ll probably end up showing them how it’s  _not_ done.”

*   *   *

Sherlock’s eyes followed the direction of Greg’s view directly into Molly’s gaping (well, maybe not gaping, but unintentionally revealing) blouse as she cued up a shot. His eyes constricted as he saw what had most likely caught Greg’s licentious gaze. The curve of her breasts as well as her powder blue, laced trimmed brassiere was plain as day to anyone perverted enough to look.

His ire was further inflamed when Greg licked his lips as he intently watched Molly stroke the cue between her dainty digits. Finally, as Greg’s head tilted sideways when she leaned further forward causing her bum to perk up in the air, Sherlock had had enough. This could not be born. Molly shouldn’t be ogled in such a manner.

“Ooh, Good one, Molly. Nice shot!” Greg commented as she struck.

She wrinkled her nose. “But it didn’t go in.”

“You had fine form, though,” he winked. “Just keep doing that and you’ll sink the next one.”

Molly handed Mary the cue with a shy grin. She seemed utterly clueless to Greg’s overtures.

“Well, I’m off to the loo. Try not to win the game before I get back.”

*   *   *

John leaned over to whisper to Mary. “Did you see the look on his face?”

Mary giggled. “Lord, and he’s followed her to the back. Poor Molly! Do you think she’s going to get an earful?”

*   *   *

Molly jumped as the first thing she saw when she opened the bathroom door was a dark, looming figure.

“My God, Sherlock, you scared the hell out of me!”

He glowered down at her and next thing she knew, she was backed into the bathroom again and the door was slammed behind them. She looked up at Sherlock into dangerously glinting eyes with her lips parted in disbelief. She felt a frission of energy course through her abdomen.

“What’s going o-on? What’s wrong?” She stuttered.

He looked over her face. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Do you realize you’re flashing half the pub every time you make a shot?”

He reached towards her and she felt the tug of his fingers as he buttoned her shirt all the way up to her throat. Her shock subsided. How dare he! She smacked his fingers away and flicked the buttons open again even as her face heated.

“To hell with you, Sherlock! What were you doing looking anyways?”

He set to work on the lapels of her shirt again. She moved to stop him. In a heartbeat, he had both her wrists imprisoned behind her back with one hand. His other hand deftly buttoned her blouse once more.

“Let go of me, you lout! You’re not my keeper.”

“I won’t let Greg Lestrade ogle you,” he muttered.

She squirmed against him. “What if I like to be ogled every once in a while? Hmm? It’s the only action I seem to get these days.”

“Stop that!” He growled.

She opened her mouth again but her words failed when she saw him heave in a deep breath.

“No, seriously, Molly. Stop wriggling . . . unless you want more action than you bargained for.”

Her eyes bulged. Then she felt something insistent between them.

“Sherlock, am I imagining things or are you, um, keen?”

His fingers stilled on her shirt and then started trembling. A groan rumbled from deep within his chest and a second later, his mouth swooped down on hers so forcefully, she felt a strain in her neck. It only took her a moment to overcome her surprise and she bent herself against him and kissed him back just as ardently. He let go of her wrists and clutched her tightly to his frame as she plunged her fingers into his hair and gripped fistfuls of his curls

Her first snog with Sherlock, in a grungy toilet in the back of a seedy pub, and damn if it wasn’t the hottest thing she’d ever experienced. He broke away then with hoarse pants.

“Molly, we obviously cannot take this any further in here,” he mumbled. “I think you should forfeit the game and come back to Baker Street with me.”


	4. Plus One.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't know how to tell Molly he's ready for kids.

“Sherlock, what happened to my prescription?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up from his laptop. “What prescription?”

Molly tilted her head at him and put her hands on her hips. “Ah, the only one I have, how about that? You know, my contraception!”

“Oh, sorry, I wasn’t really listening. Erm, Toby knocked your pills the toilet last night. I threw them out.”

She furrowed her brow. Her lips stuck out in a pout. 

“But I’m only a week into that course. Darn! Well, we’re going to have to figure something else out until next month.”

Sherlock’s eyes dropped back to his computer. “Indeed.”

*   *   *

“What do you mean there were no condoms?”

Sherlock shrugged in an exaggerated manner. “They were sold out.”

Molly squinted at him in disbelief. “Sold out? It’s the largest pharmacy in ten miles and they were sold out?”

“Yes.”

“Every brand? Every size?”

Sherlock stared at her pointedly. “Not every size. There were plenty in small and medium  but I’d rather not have my circulation cut off.”

Molly went a bit pink in the face. “Don’t make fun. That’s it. We’re sleeping in separate beds tonight.”

Sherlock huffed. “Wonderful.”

*   *   *

“Why all the thermometers?”

Sherlock hastily brushed them off the kitchen table into a box.

“New experiment. Perhaps you can help me. I would like to test your temperature every day for the next month.”

“What? Why?”

“Um, well, just interested in how the average woman’s body deals with elevated temperatures in the summer. It’s … for …  a case! Yes, a case.”

*   *   *

“Raw oysters? You hate shellfish.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “I heard they’re good here.”

A thought seemed to dance through Molly’s head. She stared at Sherlock intently as she closed her menu.

“I think I’ll have the chicken.”

“Oh?”

Molly leaned her head to the side as she studied him. “Why do I think that’s not what you would have picked for me?”

His lips turned down. “I’d never tell you what to eat but the salad with grilled salmon, walnuts and pomegranate seems more your thing.”

“Really?”

Sherlock signaled a passing waitress. “Also, I thought you might like to save room for dessert. They have an excellent dark chocolate mousse here.”

The waitress bounded over with a smile. “May I help you?”

He looked at Molly with a grin. “More wine?”

*   *   *

“No, we really can’t tonight, Sherlock.”

He scooted closer on the couch. There were very few times he ever pulled the puppy-dog look on her, but it was out in force that night.

“Stop it!” She commanded. “Stop with the face! We can’t. I could get pregnant.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Yes, that would be … terrible?”

Finally, as if someone clapped their hands together next to her head, a bunch of little details fell into place. Contraception problems, thermometers, oysters, chocolate! Molly’s lips parted as the details pointed towards the obvious.

“Wait, wait, wait. Sherlock Holmes, do you want me to get pregnant?”

He blinked at her several times. His eyes went out of focus a moment as he seemed to be trying to think of something to say.

“Sherlock?”

Finally, he opened his mouth to speak. “Yes, Mrs. Holmes. The answer to your question is yes.”

She felt her heart speed up. “Really, you’re serious?”

“Well, I’m 39 for Christ’s sake. I’m married to my soulmate and I have the insatiable urge to tie her to me forever. I want to see her belly as large as a house with my child inside, so yes, you’re damn right I want you pregnant. Tonight, if possible, but if I can’t do that, I want to try every day until it happens. Twice or more on your ovulation days, if you’ll have me.”

He peaked sideways at her. She shook her head at him and started smiling so large, her cheeks hurt.

“Is that a yes?” He asked tentatively.

Molly leaned forward and kissed him. “Of course it’s a yes, you ridiculous man. You can’t ever just come out and ask though, can you? It always has to be so complicated!”

He frowned as if he didn’t understand her criticism. “You like complicated.”

She laughed. “God help me, I do.”


	5. Honeymoon, Sherlolly Smut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> S  
> M  
> U  
> T  
> Because . . . *insert reason here*

There was something about an outdoor shower that felt positively wicked to Molly. She turned her face towards the sun which peaked over the top of the wall separating it from the pool area of their rental house. She closed her eyes as its warmth contrasted with the cool rivulets of water cascading over her skin. Tomorrow, she and her new hubby, Sherlock Holmes, would fly back home from Mexico. It felt too soon. She had loved every minute of their sun-soaked escape (well, except for the six hours Sherlock had disappeared to help the local police find a missing politician). 

“Enjoying yourself, are you?” A deep voice rumbled across from her.

Molly’s eyes fluttered open. She smiled shyly at her husband leaning against the entryway. Husband! She mouthed the word. She loved the feel of it on her lips.

“I am,” she replied softly.

Her insides washed with wave of sensation. That look on his face! The constricted eyes. The shadows that danced across brow when his hair lifted in a breeze. The way his lips bowed.  It was always intense, like being at the center of an operating theater, but she loved the feel of his gaze on her body. She greedily looked over his in return. She’d managed to coax a little color into his normally pale skin by dragging him down to the beach. A hint of bronze deliciously emphasized his lean muscles above his swim trunks.

Sherlock pushed off the door frame. “May I join you?”

Molly nodded quickly. He quickly discarded his trunks and came towards her with intent. She sucked in a breath. Oh, he was already quite aroused. She curled her toes. Almost as soon as he reached her, his arm wrapped around her waist, he jerked her against his body and slanted his mouth over hers. Instantly, she was hyper aware of the difference between his scorching heat and the much colder water. Her nipples puckered into buds on her chest. Her sex pulsed between her thighs. A familiar lust began to form in the depths of her belly.

She ran her hands over his smooth skin as the water rolled down his frame, and cupped his taut, wet arse. He lifted his head a moment and dipped it back under the shower’s stream. Then he ran his hand back over his damp curls and shook them out a bit.

“Mm, sorry, I was feeling rather hot,” he murmured.

“Yeah, you were,” she whispered and pulled his head down.

His lips, a bit wet from the water slipped over hers. She moaned against his mouth and then invited his tongue to tangle with hers. His hands glided over her flesh leaving a tingling sensation where the heat was subsequently quenched. His cock stood rigid between them. Every once in a while it would twitch, reminding her of its neediness. She reached down between then and grasped it with her hands.

“Mmph,” Sherlock grumbled. “Molly, you know when you do that, I lose my mind.”

“Yes,” she muttered. “Yes, I do.”

He reached up then, fumbled with the shower which angled it towards the wall, and slid his hands down to her thighs. He hiked her up by her legs to his waist and pinned her against the smooth tiles. Her skin squeaked and sucked against them as the water continued to pour over their bodies. 

“I’m going to take you, right here,” he rasped. “I hope you like the pattern of the mosaic. It’s going to be imprinted on your backside.”

His fingers delved into her hot, slick center to check its readiness.

“Promise?” She licked her lips as she clutched him about the neck and shoulders. “Because I’m wetter than this shower, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock groaned and kissed her then. She felt him guide the wide head of his shaft to her entrance and then with one, primal thrust, he claimed her against the shower wall. She felt the smooth ridges of the tiles press hard into her back and bum. She hugged her legs around him and held on for dear life as he rammed his impossibly hard cock into her womb once more. His mouth muffled her throaty cries. She loved this, the way he possessed her body and soul. Nothing thrilled her more than spurring him to the edge of his control, especially when he prided himself on that above all else.

Molly gripped handfuls of his wet curls then as his shaft, wet from her and the shower drove in and out of her again and again and again. Her sex began to ache, almost hurt, from how much need she had down there. Her clit was throbbing, pulsing, begging for something to slake the decadent pain. She closed her eyes and let her head loll back to the wall as she focused on the greedy little nerve bundle sparking at her core. Then, the rough penetration of him, the way his body rubbed her clit, finally set her off. One last, slippery glide and her orgasm ripped through her like a bolt of lightening. Her insides clamped around him and urged him to follow.

“Molly, um,” he grunted. “Y-You. Only you.”

A few last, jerky thrusts and the lightening struck a second time. His body went rigid as he strained to keep himself upright. His member spasmed and emptied deep within her recesses. Molly clung to him with what little strength she had.

“Y-Yes, hubby. Me,” she kissed him as he lowered her down. “Just me.”

He nodded and exhaled heavily. “That’s all I need. For now. Always. Forever.”


	6. The Garb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preach, Molly!

“Sherlock, why are you staring at me?”

Molly’s voice snapped him from his reverie.

“I am … deducing.”

Her ponytail swung as she tilted her head sideways. She slipped her safety glasses off and set them on the counter.

“Why? What don’t you already know?”

He rubbed his lips together. He had no answer to that. He looked askance.

“It is just practice,” he mumbled.

“Practice?”

He sighed noisily. “If you must know, you are like a daily human crossword puzzle for me in that you never seem to wear the same outfit twice. I try to understand your reasoning behind your selections as a kind of mental exercise.”

“Seriously? Why?”

He swirled a finger around and pointed it at her. “How can you even ask? It boggles the mind that you would wear those ill-fitting taupe trousers and that orange and green striped … monstrosity. Are those faux buttons? Is that a sweater or a cardigan?”

Molly looked down at her ensemble in disbelief. “I-I like these. They’re comfortable. Besides, what does it matter? The dead people don’t care.”

“I’m not dead.”

“You don’t count!”

Sherlock’s chin went back. Molly huffed.

“Oh, damn, I mean, that’s not what I mean. Pfft, you are so infuriating, Sherlock Holmes. If I thought it would change your opinion of me, I might dress differently but I vividly recall my efforts on that front being rather futile. You taught me a valuable lesson, believe it or not. What a person wears doesn’t matter,” She hit her chest once with her hand. “You either like what’s in here, or you don’t.”

He blinked several times.

She lifted her chin and nodded.

“Yeah, so I pick my clothes like crayons and dress for me. I like me. I’m pretty awesome. It took me a long time to accept that and grow into my own skin. I don’t need to do all this,” she gesticulated at him in a circular motion. “I don’t need to dress to intimidate anyone or increase my sex appeal, especially since you made clear it’s non-existent.”

He sat there stunned for a moment. “Non-existent? Molly, half the reason I am so irritated by the way you dress is because it distracts from …  ahem . . . mm, um, never mind.”

It was Molly’s turn to gape at him. She gave her head a shake.

“Wh-What?”

Sherlock glanced down at his watch and made an exaggerated expression of surprise. “Would you look at that? I’m late.”

She stalked up to him. “Don’t even think about leaving! Finish that thought right now.”

He gathered up his jacket. “No.”

She stepped in front of him and poked him in the chest. “Yes!”

His eyes narrowed at her before they rolled. “Good God, Molly, you just told me my opinion doesn’t matter and you are right. The fact that I think you’re beautiful shouldn’t affect your opinion of yourself one iota. My frustration lies with the idea that others may miss how truly spectacular you are because they are distracted by a rainbow jumper.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper as she stuttered in surprise. “I-I-It’s not a rainbow … it’s only t-two c-colors . . .”

Sherlock stepped closer and cupped her face. “You are too stubborn, Molly Hooper. I just told you that you are beautiful and you still defend that horrid sweater.”

She licked her lips. “You either like what’s in here or you don’t. Which is it?”

“Neither.”

He kissed her once briefly and then gazed down at her.

“I love the person within.”


	7. Checking up on Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly calls Sherlock the night of the Watson's wedding.

    “I just wanted to call and talk to you and see if you are alright.”

    Molly heard a heavy sigh crackle over the phone’s speaker. “Shouldn’t you be attempting to salvage your relationship with Tim?”

    “Tom!”

    “Oh, yes, of course … Tom,” Sherlock repeated bitterly.

    Molly cleared her throat. “Tom is mad but he’ll get over it. You’re sad, Sherlock, and I’m your friend so I want you to know that you don’t have to be sad and alone and you can come here if you like …”

    There was a pause as her words faltered. Molly felt warmth spread through her cheeks. Why was she calling him? Why did she think he needed her help at all?

    “Isn’t this a bit clichéd, Molly?” Sherlock asked dryly. “A pair of pathetic, unmarried friends lament about their own lonely existence on someone else’s wedding day.”

    Molly’s breath hitched. “A-Are you lonely? Truly?”

    He did not answer. Rather, she could hear him huff into his phone’s speaker.

    “No, I did not say that I was lonely … I was referring to you … erm, what I meant was that your relationship is obviously shaky,” he sighed again noisily. “Dear God, Molly, do not ask me such questions. You know I lash out at you when I am out of sorts. Why aren’t you making up with your fiancé?”

     Molly swallowed. “I don’t know. I-I’m not sure that I want to anymore.”

    The other end of the line went silent.

    “Sherlock?”

    “Don’t, Molly, don’t ask what you are about to ask.”

    “No, I want to know what you think. Is Tom right for me? Really, you probably know me better than I know myself. Is he the best I can do? Will he make me happy? Please, I-I need your deducing skills for this … “

    “I can’t.”

    “Please.”

    “I can’t!”

    “Why?”

    “Because I’m biased! I do not want you to marry Tom. He’s an idiot and beneath you and he’ll never make you happy because he’s not what you want, nor what you need. He can’t be because he’s not me.”

    It was Molly’s turn to be stunned.

    “Molly?”

    She sucked in a breath. She hated that he was right.

    “Molly, you asked. You cannot be mad at me for pointing out the blatantly obvious.”

    She sniffled. “Yes, I can. You have just told me that I will be lovelorn for the rest of my life because I’ll only ever want someone I can never have.”

     Another loud exhale sounded from the phone like static.

    “Don’t be absurd. I’m already yours.”

    Molly stopped breathing. “Wh-what? Oh, damn you, Sherlock Holmes. You and your words. You are lucky I have learned you almost never speak the literal truth.”

    “All I speak is the truth.”

      Her hands were shaking so violently, she almost dropped the phone. She was really angry all of a sudden.

      “Y-You … you ass!” She hissed. “I rescind my invitation. Don’t even think of coming over here.”  

    “Too late.”

    A heavy knocking sounded at her front door.

    “You’re h-here?”

    “I was already on my way when you called. Are you going to let me in or what?”

    Molly set her phone down and stalked to the door. She threw it open to see Sherlock standing there looking a bit dishevelled as if he had been running his hands through his hair. His scarf was loose around his neck with the two halves hanging at different lengths. She bit her lip. Why did he always have to look so good?

    “I kind of hate you right now.”

      He stepped through her entry and stared down at her with a slight frown.

    “That’s probably a good thing,” he muttered, “because I have come here with the intention of seducing you to make myself feel better and I need for you to resist.”

    Molly choked on a breath. Her brows furrowed.

    “That won’t be difficult, you arrogant dick.”

    He whipped off his scarf as he continued to gaze down at her. “How would you know?”

    His hands captured her face. His eyes flitted to her lips.

    “You’ve never tried.”


	8. The Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock helps Molly with a Maid of Honor Speech.

   “Erm, no.”

    “Excuse me?” Molly raised her brows.

    “You don’t want to write that.”

    She made a sound of irritation. “You don’t even know what I am writing.”

    His eyes constricted and he inhaled swiftly. “Yes, I do. It’s a maid of honor speech. Your little sister is getting married, or half-sister, should I say?  Ten years your junior, indulged by your mother, you two don’t really get along – should I continue? She only asked you to stand up for her because she likes to rub her relationship in your face.”

    Molly rolled her eyes and looked back down at her laptop on her lab bench. She had written and rewritten the same opening paragraph countless times. She sighed.

    “How do you know all that, Sherlock?”

    He cleared his throat and looked away. “I know everything about you, Molly.”

    She snorted as she glanced back at him. “You can’t possibly know  _everything_ about me.”

    His cheek jumped as he thought about something. Then he smiled tightly.

    “Mycroft has a file.”  

    Molly pursed her lips.

    “Of course he does,” she said after a while. “God forbid I have any privacy!”

    Sherlock shrugged. “I also read between the lines. There is an undercurrent of resentment in the tone of your words. I would advise against excessive use of the term ‘so’ as it will end up connoting the opposite of what you intend.”

    Molly wrinkled her nose as she appraised her speech. “What are you talking about?”

    Sherlock pointed at her first couple of sentences, lifted his chin and blinked as if readying himself for an oration.

    “Ahem, ‘ _when my little sister first asked me to stand up for her, I was so honored. I am so happy for her and Joseph because they are so perfect for each other. They love each other so, so much_. Need I go on? ‘So’ appears about a half-dozen more times before the paragraph is over.”

    Molly’s spine stiffened. “I don’t resent my little sister.”

    His lips poked out for a second. “Ah, yes you do. Don’t fret, she resents you too. You cancel one another out.”

    Molly pushed her laptop aside and dropped her head to the lab bench. She groaned.

    “Pfft, I hate that you can read me so well,” she muttered.

    “The feeling is mutual,” he sighed.

    Molly snorted and then guffawed. Then they both started laughing. Sherlock slapped the bench as he bent over. His deep chuckles mixed with her giggling filled the lab. She wiped tears from her eyes and clutched her sides.

    “Oh, my, we are a pair, aren’t we?” She panted.

    He wheezed. “Christ, Molly, I can’t hide anything from you. I dread to be around you sometimes almost as much as I long for it-”

    Molly’s laughter dried up almost as quickly as Sherlock’s mouth clapped shut. She shook her head. Did she just hear what she thought she heard?

    “Mm, ahem,” he mumbled. “Erm, y-your speech! Right! Can I be of any assistance?”

    She blinked several times and opened her laptop with a trembling hand. He had to have misspoken, or she imagined it. Yes, there was no way Sherlock longed for her in any way, shape or form.

    “Ah, I-I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to help.”

    She fluffed her lab coat. Heat flushed through her body. She felt very hot all of a sudden.

    He reached towards her computer. “May I?”

    Molly gulped down an awkward breath. “Yeah, um, yes! Go ahead.”

    Sherlock’s fingers flew over the keys as he typed.

    “Your speech doesn’t have to be that long,” he glanced up at her, “I know you do not like to be the center of attention. A few sincere sentences ought to suffice.”

    She leaned on her elbow, rested her chin on her palm and watched in fascination as he poured his thoughts into his writing. He had such an intense look in his eyes. Every so often they would constrict or his eyelids would flutter as he paused to think. His lips moved absentmindedly as he mouthed the words appearing on the screen. In a few short minutes, a smile tugged the corner of his lips and he turned the laptop with a flourish back in her direction.

    Molly’s eyes went wide. “Done?”

    He jerked his chin and half-raised his brow. “Mm hmm.”

    She reluctantly looked down at the screen knowing his words would put hers to shame.

     _“My sister and I have not always seen eye to eye. We disagree about a great many things, but one thing we have in common is that we both do truly love one another. I feel honored and privileged to have this exceptional person in my life because without her, I feel I would be missing a part of my soul. My sincerest wish for her future is for her to be happy, to always feel loved and to continue to share her love unashamedly with the rest of the world because her devotion, once you have obtained it, is a precious and rare gift.”_

Molly felt tears burn her eyes as soon as she finished reading the short blurb. She choked up as she looked at Sherlock.

    “That is so very beautiful,” she whispered. “It’s perfect. Thank-you.”

    She stood up quickly and hugged him around the neck. He was stiff for a moment, but then she felt his hand slide around her back and press her against him tightly.

    “It’s nothing,” he returned. “Just words.”

    She lifted her head to look at him.

    “No, there’s love in what you wrote, Sherlock Holmes. Y-You must have been inspired by someone, someone you love. Who is it?”

    He sucked in a breath as his eyes searched her face. His lips parted.

    “You.”


	9. Visiting Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here is probably the 1000th “Molly visits Sherlock at the Hospital after he was shot by Mary” scene written to date. Wasn’t this one of the harshest blows to us Sherlollists, to not see their exchange? Even just a quick shot of her looking at him on the bed with big eyes or his smile when she checked in on him would have been nice (cause you know it had to happen). I would have even loved a bit of angst, say her happening by when Janine was there and turning away with a look of heartbreak. Ah, my vacant little Sherlolly heart. It needs more moments to fill the holes.

     Almonds, vanilla, and a hint of Freesia. Sherlock didn’t even need to open his eyes to know to whom that smell belonged. He inhaled deeply once more.

    “Molly,” he murmured. “Come to slap me again?”

    “I should,” she returned quietly. “Lord knows, I should.”

    He blinked and opened his eyes when something hit his lap. He looked down. A tabloid. Damn.

    “Is it true?  _‘Seven times a night’_?” She asked.

    He couldn’t help flinching as he glanced up at her hovering over him and was confronted by her disenchantment. He had thoroughly disappointed her in every way imaginable. Her eyes were large, caramel orbs with a sheen that caused him to hold his breath until it hurt.

    “No, of course not,” he replied with a cough. “It was . . . five at most. Who has that kind of fortitude?”

    “Oh!” Molly gasped. “Oh!”

    She swatted him in the shoulder with the trashy magazine. Sherlock groaned, grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to the hospital bed so she sat facing him hip to hip. He plucked the magazine from her grasp and tossed it aside. He felt a spear of pain near his wound on his chest. He squeezed his eyes a moment to will it away.

    “I’m kidding,” he whispered as he opened his eyes slowly and inhaled. “Of course I am kidding.”

    Molly’s lips were pressed in a thin line. Her nostrils flared as she labored to breath. Then her lip jutted out in a pout. He frowned as he found himself transfixed by that bit of flesh.

    “Did y-you and Janine . . . did you, you know?” She asked with a tremor in her voice.

    He shook his head slowly. “No, I feigned feelings for Janine for a case.”

    Sherlock grimaced as her eyes misted and she looked down to conceal her reaction. She sniffed and shifted next to him. He wasn’t sure how it happened but he realized that he had intertwined his fingers with hers and held her hand against his abdomen. He wished he had more energy to sit up properly.

    “Y-You kill me, Sherlock,” her voice quivered. “The drugs, getting yourself shot, Janine, running away from the hospital . . . I was so scared.”

    “Then you are not actually mad?” He asked anxiously.

    “I don’t really have any right to be, do I?”

    His brows flinched. “Look at me, Molly.”

    He held his breath until she met his gaze again. His heart skipped a beat.

    “You are entitled to be upset with me.”

    “I am?”

     He nodded. She stared at him a moment. Then as if coming to a realization, she started nodding as well.

    “I am!” She exclaimed. “Four words and I threw away everything.  _‘You cannot marry Tom’_ , you said. What was that phone call about? Were you high? Was it just some damn deduction you never cared to explain? You made it sound as if . . .”

    Molly sniffled again and swallowed. “You made it sound as if it was something you wanted.”

    He tightened his hold on her hand.

    “Mm, ah, you aren’t allowed to be mad at me for that.”

    Her nose scrunched up and her lips parted.

    Sherlock rushed to speak. “I did you a favor. Tom would have made you miserable.”

    “But you said-”

    He dipped his head. “Yes, you are allowed to be livid for everything else you mentioned, but not for my demanding you break it off with that clod.”

    Molly tilted her head and leaned on her hand. “You speak in riddles, Sherlock Holmes. I don’t understand you at all.”

    He took a deep breath.

    “Then let me make it clear, Molly Hooper. You are entitled to have expectations of me and to be disappointed when I fall short of them. You are entitled because . . . I am . . . yours.”


	10. Embracing Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens after Sherlock's plane lands? In our Sherlolly dreams, we hope for this . . .

Molly didn’t know what to do with herself as she wandered around the lab aimlessly. She couldn’t sit still but neither could she focus on work.

  _“Did you miss me?”_

It had been a couple of hours since Moriarty’s message had taken over every screen in the UK but her heart rate had yet to slow. Every time she stilled for a moment the blood in her ears would whoosh so loudly, she thought her eardrums might burst. Each breath left her lips shakily as if she had to fight every second not to hyperventilate. Her afternoon bevy cooled on the lab bench untouched, just a cloud of color surrounding a tea bag that had steeped too long. She could not bring herself to drink it. She didn’t trust her trembling fingers to hold onto the ceramic mug long enough for the liquid to reach her lips.

She had tried to throw herself into her work but concentration was impossible. Words on the pages of lab reports seemed to swirl in front of her eyes. The symbols on the buttons of her machines looked foreign, as if someone had replaced them while she wasn’t looking. Every time one of the electronics buzzed to life, its sound made her jump. There was no denying it, she was cracking up.

 She glanced at the clock on the wall. 2:30 pm. She had another hour before Greg, who had graciously texted and asked if she wanted to be escorted home, arrived. She fished her phone from her pocket and swiped the screen to life. She swallowed a lump and willed away tears.

  _“The one person he thought didn’t matter at all to me, was the one person who mattered the most.”_

Molly sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Yeah … yeah, right, Sherlock.”

 So much for mattering. He hadn’t replied to the texts she had sent. Granted, he was probably busy but if ever there was a time for him to show he cared, even in the slightest, right then would have been it. A fat tear plopped down on her mobile. She tugged her sleeve over the heel of her palm and wiped at it furiously. It smeared and obscured the screen, or was it her eyes that blurred? With a hiccup, she stuffed the cell back in her pocket and covered her face with her hands.

          *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Sherlock rapped his knuckles against the rear window of the luxury sedan as it navigated the streets of London. Rain had just began to fall. He watched several drops snake down the glass until they traversed the point near the base of the window where increased air speed caused them to flutter and jump from the car. He exhaled in aggravation as the vehicle slowed for what seemed like the thousandth time.

“Relax, brother mine,” Mycroft murmured. “In addition to the agents we already had stationed there, we have sent several more. In fact, there is no need for you to go at all.”

Sherlock turned from the window and skewered him with his glare. Mycroft clapped his lips shut, turned up his nose and rolled his eyes away towards the opposite window. Sherlock caught Anthea’s dark gaze in the rear view mirror as she looked up from her mobile. Her eyes crinkled at the corners before she tapped the arm of the driver.

“I think you can go a bit faster,” she said softly. “No one will dare stop this car.”

           *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

 Molly hiked her bag on her shoulder and pushed out the lab door into the corridor. It swung noisily behind her as she studied her phone one last time. There was only one recent message and it was from Greg Lestrade.

_On my way. – G_

She bit her lip and shook her head sadly at the screen.

“Stop it,” she whispered to herself angrily. “Just stop it.”

A flurry of movement at the end of the corridor caught her attention and her head snapped up. Her heart thudded to a stop in her chest, the air left her lungs as if someone pounced on her chest. Sherlock, followed by Mycroft speaking in clipped tones, stalked down the hall. Sherlock stopped once, retorted something in a caustic tone, waved his hand at his brother and then resumed his march in her direction. When their eyes met across the distance, his steps slowed. Without taking his determined gaze from hers or stopping his advance, he yanked at his scarf until it was loose, bunched it into a wad and threw it to the floor.

 Molly started shaking. Her bag slid off her shoulder, tugged her arm on the way down until it she just let it fall to the floor in a heap. Before she even knew what she was doing, her feet were flying beneath her as she sprinted towards him. She choked on a cry just as she launched herself into his open arms. Her feet flew in an arc as he absorbed her impact, then she was wrapped in his embrace. She buried her face in his shoulder and started sobbing as he clutched her tightly against his solid frame.

 “It’s alright,” he murmured into her ear as his fingers tangled with the hair at her nape. “I’ve got you.”

 Molly clung to his neck as she let it all out. She knew from this moment on, everything was going to be alright just as he said. After all, he had come for her. There was no denying how he felt in the way he held her, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Before she even realized it, his lips were on hers and they were kissing. A burst of joy flared in her chest even as tears dried on her cheeks and she kissed him back.

 “Oh, Good Lord,” Mycroft mumbled.

Sherlock lifted his head. “You are welcome to leave.”

Behind her boss, Anthea smirked and pressed her lips together to hide a smile. Greg Lestrade seemed to appear out of nowhere. He looked at the pair of them still grasping each other tightly. His lips formed an ‘o’.

“Erm, I gather I’m no longer needed?”


	11. Daughters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flash forward a few years.

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he saw the look of irritation on Molly’s face as she awaited their coffee order. It wasn’t their girls bothering her, he was certain about that. Cecilia seemed perfectly content snoozing on her shoulder, her dainty brunette brows drawn into a sleeping frown as her little bow lips pulsed like she was sucking on a phantom dummy. His eyes flicked down to five-year old Melisande, the perfect miniature version of his wife, holding Molly’s hand. Her face was turned up towards the stranger (who jabbered at them) with a scowl that matched her Mummy’s.

Sherlock edged closer. There was a woman in her late fifties gesticulating wildly as if what she was saying was the most important thing in the world.

“Oh, but you can’t be done! No man is complete without a son. Trust me, darling, you’ll regret not giving him one …”

Sherlock’s blood boiled as he heard that. He was about to open his mouth and swoop in when Melisande stomped her little foot. The heel of her black Maryjane shoe made a loud clack against the tile floor.

“He has CiCi and me! Why would he need a boy?” She piped up.

The older woman clucked her tongue and smiled in a patronizing manner. “Oh, little one, you’re probably too young to understand-”

Molly seemed ready to lash out as well but Melisande put her hands on her hips and raised her determined little chin (oddly reminding him of Mycroft).

“My daddy says I am already smarter than most people. I think that means you too because I know girls are just as good as boys. You should just . . . go away, because you are stupid and my daddy says that we should never waste our time with stupid people.”

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “My word! The manners! Are you not going to correct her?”

Sherlock finally interceded.

“No,” he looked her up and down with derision, “not when she is right. Now, do as the child has directed and go away.”

With a huff, the woman stormed off. Molly shook her head and rolled her eyes. Melisande looked anxiously between him and her mother. Sensing her distress, Sherlock crouched down. She slipped her hand from Molly’s grasp and hugged her tiny arms around his neck. Her little brow furrowed as she thought about something.

“Daddy, is it okay that it’s just me and CiCi?” Her voice quivered.

He nodded. “Better than okay. I love my girls more than anything. Daddy could not be happier with our family.”

She sniffed but seemed unconvinced. Sherlock took a calming breath. He wanted to phone Mycroft and have him ruin the ignorant woman’s credit for all eternity.

“Listen,” he rumbled. “You count, little madam. There are some in this world who may think otherwise but do not ever think that your daddy might be one of them, because you girls are the people who matter the most to me in the world. Besides, boys are yucky, are they not?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yup!”

“You’re going to stay far away from them, right?”

“Until I’m 25!”

“Otherwise?”

“They’ll find themselves floating down the Thames upside down!”

Molly gasped. “Sherlock, you did not say that to her!?”

His eyes darted sideways. “Erm, nooo?”

Sherlock smiled as Molly suppressed a grin. She seemed to sniffle as well as she cradled their younger daughter’s head. He stood up, hoisting Melisande up in his arms, leaned forward and kissed both Molly and their youngest. Cecilia sputtered a breath, completely oblivious of what had just happened and resumed her dream feeding. He was happy. This was happiness for him and he would not change anything.


	12. When Sherlock met Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I watched 'When Harry Met Sally' on tv last night and was inspired to write a scene based on some moments from that film. So, here it is!

Sherlock opened the door to a red-faced Molly wearing baby blue cotton pajamas with tiny black polka dots and a fluffy white dressing gown. Her eyes were pink and sported a sheen while her cheeks puffed and her lips puckered.

“Well, I am here, as requested,” he mumbled.

She grimaced, then raised a handkerchief to her face and started sobbing. He stood there a moment, his lips drawn in with his fingers dangling at his sides before she hiccupped and buried her face in her hands. He was not quite sure what to do. She was obviously overcome with emotions. She needed comfort. He was just not entirely sure how to go about offering such a thing.

He stepped into her apartment, swung the door closed and stared down at her a moment.

“So, I gather you have finally completely finished with . . . Tim?”

“Tom!” She sputtered as she looked up at him.

“Yeees, Tom,” he felt his nose bunch. “I am . . . sorry?”

Molly sniffled and frowned at him as a fresh spill of tears welled up along her lids. “Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have called you. You don’t understand!”

Sherlock tugged at the cuffs of his Belstaff and then whipped it off. Without even thinking about it, he hung it on the empty peg to his left. He paused a moment as his fingers slid from his coat. There was always a perpetually empty peg even though the ones next to it struggled to support several garments. He exhaled a heavy breath. He did not want to think about the implications of that lonely hook.

“Would you like tea?” He asked stiffly.

“Oh, whatever,” she huffed dramatically as she spun back towards her living room. “Tea, coffee, methamphetamine, crack cocaine. It doesn’t matter. Nothing will help.”

Sherlock tried not to laugh as he cupped her elbow and cajoled her back towards her sofa where she plopped down dejectedly. He pushed up his sleeves and set about making her tea as she plucked several tissues from a box on her end table.

“H-He took the last of his things today,” Molly sputtered. “He’s well and truly gone.”

“Good riddance,” Sherlock mumbled as he wandered into the kitchen.

“Excuse me, what?” Molly called.

“Erm, I just said, sounds right,” he replied and poked his head sideways to see her. “Forgive me, but this was not entirely unexpected, am I wrong? The odds on your reconciliation were quite low.”

Molly poked her lips out. “That’s not the point! He left me. He. Left. Me! I was the one unhappy with him. I was supposed to break it off, not the other way round. Now he’s gone and found himself a new girlfriend. It’s only been four weeks. Four weeks!”

Sherlock flicked on the kettle and made his way back towards the living room. He paused a moment as he thought about exactly what a friend should do in this situation. Comfort. That is what Molly required. He surveyed the seating options. There was a vacant spot next to her on the sofa and the chair opposite from where she sat. He took a deep breath. She had asked for his assiatance in a state of uncertainty and insecurity. That dictated he sit next to her.

    “It is a waste of energy to be concerned with Tom’s activities,” he murmured as he settled into the seat to her right.

    “B-B-But h-how can he be ready to m-move on so quickly? Didn’t I mean anything to him?”

    Sherlock swallowed as Molly’s large, bird-like eyes gazed up at him. Her lips trembled. He felt a furrow set into his brow as he instantly comprehended exactly what caused her to be upset. She wasn’t sad about parting ways with Tom. She wanted to matter. Tom had made her feel inadequate, as if she was inconsequential. He licked his tongue over his teeth as the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. His blood temperature spiked up a couple of degrees and heated breath poured from his nostrils.

    “Molly, I find it unfathomable that he did not care about you . . . very deeply. Likely, if he has appeared to have moved on it is because he is overcompensating for the vacancy you have left in his life.”

    Molly’s throat moved as she swallowed. “You think so?”

    Sherlock shrugged. “It is either that or he never really cared about you, having dragged out your relationship longer than intended because he was too cowardly to break it off sooner.”

    Molly’s mouth hung open. Her brows drooped at the sides. He instantly regretted his speculation.

    “But that’s terrible! Oh, how horrid. I want to wretch,” she cried as she drew away from him. “Why can’t you ever just lie to me, Sherlock?”

    He sucked in a quick breath. “O-Of course, this is low on my list of probabilities. In actual fact, Molly, I cannot comprehend his decision to leave you. His rejection makes no sense at all except that perhaps he is a very insecure individual. You possess every desirable characteristic I can imagine. You are supremely intelligent and the kindest, bravest, most stalwart defender a man might ever have. On top of all this, your beauty is unmatched . . . what? What is that look for?”

    Molly dashed away tears. Her chest shuddered as a sob bubbled up from within.

    “Oh, damn, Sherlock Holmes!” She shoved his shoulder. “Damn you!”

    He lightly grasped her wrist, perplexed. “I don’t understand.”

    “Y-Y-You break my heart but then make It impossible to hate you and I really do hate you.”

    Tears spilled from her eyes.

    “I-I hate you,” she whispered.

    He leaned forward, incensed. “No you don’t.”

    “I don’t?”

    Molly’s lips quivered and he could no longer help himself.

    “No,” he mumbled.

    He shifted forwards and fell on her, his lips fumbled over hers clumsily at first, but then fed from them eagerly like a man too long denied sustenance. Her hands found on his chest, satisfied little cries poured into his mouth and he was lost. His hands dove under her dressing gown and clutched her against him. Molly. His Molly, steward of his mind palace. She mattered and he would spend the rest of his life dedicated to reminding her of that fact.


	13. Dedication. Molly, the Original Sherlolly Shipper.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock spots Molly snoozing at the lab.

Sherlock pushed through doors into the lab at Bart’s and then frowned as he looked around. Typically, Molly buzzed back and forth like one of those metal ducks in a carnival shooting game but the room was as quiet as a tomb. Well, quiet save for the whirling vibrations of electronic equipment and the pop and fizz of a fluttering overhead florescent light fixture.

He advanced slowly and spied Molly passed out on a lab bench, her cheek squished against its metal surface. She still gripped a tall, graduated cylinder in one hand while the other rested on the keyboard of her laptop. For the briefest instant, his heart felt as if it were clutched by frostbitten fingers. What had happened to her? Then her lips twitched in her sleep and she snorted before exhaling a heavy breath. His mouth tweaked at the corners. Nothing nefarious had gone on. Molly had just worn herself out. Typical.

Curiosity tugged a thread in the back of Sherlock’s mind. What had she been working on this late after her shift was supposed to have ended? He padded nearer, ghosting around the bench until he stood to her right. Carefully, he plucked her hand from her keyboard and moved it off her computer. The display awakened once he swiped at the trackpad.

Her email client was open as well as several document files and the web browser. Everything he read seemed to have something to do with heroin addiction.

He found himself swallowing uncomfortably. He looked down at some notes she had been taking and studies she had printed off. When he glanced at her laptop again, he noticed an Excel spreadsheet open on the desktop tab with the file name SH_project as well as a Word document by that same name. He maximized and quickly perused both. His lips parted in surprise as he realized what he had stumbled upon. Molly appeared to be in the process of developing and testing a chemical variant of Methadone in the hopes it was less addictive with fewer side effects.

And it wasn’t a recent pet project either, he surmised as he scanned the dates and times of various experiments in one of the indexes. She had been at it for years.  _Years_.

_“Caring is not an advantage.”_

How empty and pompous that statement seemed right then, and how foolish he felt for ever entertaining it as a concept with merit. Molly was trying to save him from himself, and in the process, she could end up changing countless other lives. His face heated as her humility reduced him to feeling about two inches tall.

She groaned and began to stir. Her head jerked and her features contorted in a grimace. Without giving it another thought, he closed her laptop, slung her bag over his shoulder and scooped her off her stool and up into his arms. He was surprised and a bit disturbed by how light she felt. Molly’s eyes blinked open in startled surprise. She clutched him around the neck as he began to stalk towards the exit.

“Sh-Sherlock!” She stammered. “Wh-What are y-you doing? What is happening?”

“To start, we’re going to that fish and chips shop I told you about to get something to eat,” he grumbled.

“B-But I’m fine,” she protested. “I don’t need to eat.”

“I beg to differ.”

“B-But I’m … erm, I’m in the middle of something!”

“It can wait.”

Her lips stuck out in a pout. “You don’t know that.”

Sherlock hiked a brow as he repositioned her in his arms and fumbled with the lab door. Her pushed it the rest of the way open and jostled her back against him more comfortably. Her delicate arms tightened her hold around his neck.

“When will we be back?” She whispered up at him.

He swung her out into the hall and continued in his mission. “We’re not returning here tonight. You’re coming home to Baker Street with me.”

Her brows drew together. “Why? What is it? Is something wrong? What do you need?”

“What do I need?” He inhaled a deep breath. “You, Molly. I need to take care of you for a change.”

 


	14. Cupcakes, Parentlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlolly pregnant Molly :)

Sherlock hovered at the kitchen entrance for a moment touching his fingers together over and over as he appraised Molly sitting on a stool at the kitchen peninsula with her face buried in her hands. Her top, stretched over her distended belly, was caked with flour. She was obviously upset. There were baking implements everywhere and a whole carton of eggs smashed upside down on the floor. The acrid smell of incinerated baked goods filled the air.

However, he hadn’t a clue as to how to proceed. Lately, he had trouble gauging her moods. She was very pregnant and she often divulged into a fit of tears for little to no reason. It was frustrating because sometimes she wanted comfort and other times she just wanted him to burn in a fiery pit of her rage (at least, that is what he gleaned from the look in her eyes).

He took a deep breath. It mattered not how he was received. He would never ignore her in distress no matter how much she loathed him in any particular moment.

“What’s wrong, my darling?” He asked warily.

Molly looked up from her hands. Her very red, swollen eyes and trembling lip lanced his heart.

“I-I-I dropped the eggs and I cannot pick them up because I can’t bend over properly. S-So I tried to put in some extra baking powder and soda into the mix but I think there is something wrong with them because the cupcakes expanded rather rapidly. Oh,” she sniffed and started crying again. “I am a complete and utter failure! What kind of mummy can’t bake? What am I going to do? I will make a laughing stock of our poor child.”

Sherlock steeled his features and wrapped his arms around his tiny wife. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and sobbed into it. He bit back every too-logical counter argument that came to mind and allowed her to have her cry. Then, he crouched down in front of her and squeezed her hands.

“Baking is not a prerequisite for motherhood, Molly Holmes, and one of the things I love most about you is that you do not fit any standard mold. So I am glad you cannot bake because I think I would prefer being better than you at something for a change.”

Her lips parted in surprise. “Wh-What do you mean? Are you telling me  _you_ can bake?”

He wanted to tease her about not disagreeing with his telling her she was better at everything else but decided against it. “Of course. I do have a degree in Chemistry, after all, it’s just science. I will tell you a secret. I am such a good baker and did it so often as a youth that I was single handedly responsible for Mycroft being morbidly obese as a teenager.”

Molly gasped. “He wasn’t!”

“Indeed, he was. He was eventually able to lose the weight through a regimented diet and exercise routine but every now and then, I get a phone call in the middle of the night and he begs me to bake something for him. I have to say no, of course. You know how addicts can be.”

Finally, his wife giggled and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“I cannot imagine a more perfect mother for my children, by the way,” he murmured as he rose and kissed her on the forehead, “that’s why I chose you, Molly. I knew I would never meet anyone better. Now let’s see what you have done and try this again, shall we?”

He turned quickly as her eyes misted over and gulped back a bubble in his throat. Several hours later, the pair of them generously iced the most decadent lemon curd stuffed vanilla cupcakes with rich buttercream topping. As it turned out, the baking powder Molly had used for her ill-fated cakes was mislabeled citric acid that had not taken kindly to being mixed with soda and baked.

As they toiled together, Sherlock made certain to stop from time to time to catalogue every moment. Until he met Molly, there had been lots of adventure as well as ups and downs, but never any real joy in his life. It was simple moments like this he found himself thankful for what she added, a feeling of wholeness he hadn’t known he was missing.

“So, will these suffice?” He asked gruffly when emotion threatened to distract him again (he blamed it on a sympathetic physiological response to her earlier outburst).

“Hmm?” Molly mumbled through a mouthful of cupcake. She swallowed and licked her lips. “Oh, yes, these are excellent.”

“Then you need not worry about baking. I will do it if the need arises as long as you take full credit for their production.”

She nodded, smiled and reached for a second cupcake. “That I can do, my love.”

“And you won’t tell anyone else, especially Mycroft?”

Before she could answer, Sherlock’s phone began vibrating on the counter. The caller id flashed “private”.

“How does he always know?!” Sherlock snapped as he snatched up the mobile.

“Oh, be nice, Sherlock. These are heaven. If I had to live my life without them, I might be just as ornery as your brother,” Molly took another large bite, a dollop of icing stuck to her nose, “but better tell him to get over here quick if he wants any. There might not be any left in another hour.”


	15. Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes a deduction. This is the aftermath. :)

   The ticking of the wall clock in Bart’s lab rapped noisily as if it were amplified by a bullhorn. Molly and John sat next to one other on a lab bench with their feet dangling off the floor as they awaited some spark of life from Sherlock who hadn’t moved in several minutes. His face was still frozen in a deep frown as he stared vacantly at the opposite wall. Molly clucked her tongue and took a sip of her tea. John checked his watch.

    “It’s been awhile since he’s done that,” John muttered. “I forgot how unsettling it can be.”

    Molly’s hands started trembling. She put down her cup and crossed her arms. “Um, should I be doing something? I feel like I broke him.”

    John chuckled and scratched his chin. “No, no! He’ll come out of it eventually. He just experienced a processing glitch and needs to reboot.”

    “H-How long do you think it will take?” She chewed her lip nervously.

    John tilted his head as he assessed the detective. “Dunno, but I imagine it might be for a spell yet. Peckish at all?”

    “Yeah, I probably should replace my stomach contents. Sorry about that earlier. I didn’t mean to run out in the middle of our conversation.”

    “It’s completely understandable, Molly. Mary experienced the same sort of thing when she was expecting,” John hopped to the floor and held out his hand. “Shall we?”

    She nodded absentmindedly and glanced ruefully at Sherlock as she slid from her seat. “Should we leave him?”

    John waved his free hand in his friend’s direction. “Bah, he’ll be fine. If he comes out of it before we return, he’ll find us, of that I’m certain.”

    Molly took his arm and strolled with him out of the lab and down the hospital corridor and into the bright outside world. For a minute or two, they walked quietly together in the afternoon sun looking for a cab.

    “Congratulations, by the way,” John squeezed her arm.

    “Thank-you,” she replied softly.

    “Is …is it happy news for you?” He asked.

    Molly nodded. “Yes, yes of course, but it was unexpected. I’m a bit terrified.”

    “Oh, that’s understandable, seeing as you broke up with Tom and all. Do you think he’ll step up and help you take care of the baby?”

    Her steps came to a grinding halt. “John … Tom’s not the father.”

    John blinked at her through rounded eyes. “Oh, bollocks, I’m sorry. Who is it?”

    She frowned at him in confusion. “Erm, I thought that was kind of obvious back in the lab …”

    John scrunched his face for a moment before his eyes bugged from his sockets. His mouth dropped open.

    “Holy Mother of Sherlock’s Child! Oh. My. God!” He started laughing hysterically and snatched up Molly to twirl her in his arms. “Brilliant!”

    Molly giggled as he set her down again. “Do you think so?”

    John shook her by the shoulders. “Are you serious? I ship you two. That’s a thing, by the way. I am so happy I could … well, I could do a jig.”

    He stepped away from Molly, bowed and performed a few silly dance moves right there. Molly covered her mouth as laughter bubbled up.

    “John, you’re too much,” she panted.

    He stopped, clapped and rubbed his hands together. “God, I’m so blind. It all makes perfect sense now.”

    Molly raised her brows. “What?”

    John waved his hands around. “The excuses to visit the lab every chance he got, the way his eyes followed you when we visited, the cat hair on his Belstaff …”

    Heat scalded her face. “Toby likes to curl up in his coat.”

    John wiped a tear from his eye. “Priceless.”

    He sniffed and shook his head. There was actually quite the sheen in his eyes. Molly rubbed his back.

    “Oh, Sorry, Molly. I don’t mean to get so, well, you know. It’s just, I have been so happy but I’ve also felt such guilt for moving on. If there is one thing I could have asked for that man, it would have been that he experience the same sort of happiness. This is just, exactly, exactly what I would have wished.”

    Molly wrung her hands. “Oh, well, I rendered him nearly comatose, John. I-I don’t know if he’s happy.”

    A deep voice interrupted them. “I am.”

    Molly spun to face Sherlock still looking a bit pale, but at least conscious. “Y-You are?”

    He dipped his head in a slow nod, his eyes fixed on her face. “Forgive me, I had thought I told you that and much more but realized I might have neglected to actually speak the words aloud when I became aware you both had left.”

    She nodded and tears welled up in her eyes.

    “Don’t cry,” he said quickly and pointed a finger at his friend, “that imperative applies to you as well, John.”

    “Shut up and hug your girlfriend,” John sniffed.

    “Girlfriend? What a wholly inadequate term for Molly,” he strode towards her and pulled her into his arms.

    Molly squeezed him back. “What would you call me then?”

    “I don’t know,” he mumbled in her ear, “how about, ‘my everything’?”

    She swallowed. “Th-That will suffice, thank-you.”

    A second set of arms embraced them both.

    “Oh, good God, John!” Sherlock bit out. “Control yourself!”

    “Nope! I’m too happy!” He chirped and hugged them tighter. “Oh, wait ‘til Mary hears about this!”


	16. The 100% inoffensive, politically correct Sherlolly precession of physical engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As someone accused me of Sherlock “abusing” Molly in my last fic update because Sherlock picked up on some non-verbal clues and dared kiss her without explicitly enquiring about it first, I thought I would try my hand at writing a completely respectful Sherlock soliciting Molly’s bod! Here goes nothing!

“Sherlock, erm, have you escaped from a drug treatment center?” Molly stared ruefully at his ensemble. “What’s with the outfit?”

Sherlock had arrived to her home only moments ago acting quite peculiarly. She had invited him in and he had promptly found a corner in her living room in which to back into. 

The detective wore a sort of grey-linen set of ill-fitting tee-shirt and pants. They appeared to be scrubs or pajamas. Her eyes flicked up to his hair. It was parted in the middle and combed neatly but lacked his signature flare. Strangely, he didn’t look up. He kept his eyes down, his hands clasped behind his back and his chin lowered.

“Sherlock?”

He cleared his throat. “Molly, I have something to ask. Are you receptive to an exchange involving subjects of a sexual nature? If not, please tell me and I will leave immediately. If you are, I thank you and reiterate that at any time, if you feel threatened or uncomfortable, you may demand I vacate your premises.”

Molly stalked up to him and tried to look at his face from where it was averted towards the floor.

“Are you high?”

His eyes skittered sideways. “No.”

“You are! Damnit!”

He coughed. “Forgive me but I am not high.”

“Then why won’t you look at me?” She demanded. “And why the hell are you dressed like an orderly in a mental facility?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together before taking a deep breath and then he began to explain. “I have been doing some online research in an attempt to garner some insight into how I might present myself to you so as to be the least threatening version of a heteronormative male. I am avoiding eye contact so that you do not find me aggressive. I have dressed in gender-neutral garb so that you do not feel I am manipulating you with my appearance.” 

“Why!?” Molly flicked up his nose.

Finally, he lifted his head and she was able to look into his beautiful blue-green eyes. He swallowed.

“I would like to have intimite relations with you.”

Molly’s nose scrunched. She could not help but feel like he was putting her on except that there was no hint of irony in his tone.

“Intimite relations? Do you mean sex? Sex? You want to have sex with me?” She asked incredulously.

He dipped his head. “Yes, but only if it would be something you explicitly consent to both verbally and non verbally. A-Also, I have a form.”

“A form? Are you cracked?” She stepped away and massaged her temples. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s lips twitched and he looked very confused. He gazed down at his attire and moment and then shook his head.

“I do not understand. Is this not the preferred manner in which I should engage you? According to Tumblr-”

“Tumblr? Oh, dear God, Sherlock, if you are serious and you want to have sex with me, Tumblr is the last place you should be looking for advice. No one can agree on anything on that site.”

He grimaced. “So, this is not good?”

Molly nodded quickly. “Yeah, a little bit not good.”

He groaned and then mussed up his hair. Then he flicked the button at his throat open and loosened the tie at his waist so the pants that had been hiked up relaxed low on his hips. 

“What am I supposed to do? What would you like?”

Molly’s eyes lingered on his lower abdomen a moment. Then she chewed her lip and shrugged with a smirk as she looked back up at his flawless profile. 

“Erm, I don’t know. Maybe you could grab me or something.”

His eyebrow shot up. Then he turned towards her. As he approached with intent, she felt the flutter of naughty little winged creatures in her guts.

“That’s what you want? Really?” He murmured in his deepest tone.

She licked her lips in anticipation. “Oh, Sherlock, trust me, if I don’t like what you’re doing, I will be very vocal about it. Actually, I suspect I will be vocal either way.”

His eyes darkened. “So, I have permission to ‘grab’ you?”

She growled. “Get over here!”


	17. A Sherlolly Valentine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The not so squishy Valentine's Day Sherlolly.

        Sherlock frowned as his eyes fell upon Molly’s small form across the lab. Underneath her lab coat, she was dressed in all black from a snug turtle neck shirt to slim-fitting dress pants. She even wore a dainty pair of black women’s oxfords. He flexed his fingers at his sides as an odd sensation rippled under his flesh. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he kept rescanning her diminutive frame. She looked like she was about to shrug off her coat, somersault out of the lab, and sneak off to commit cat-burglary. His breath felt abnormally warm leaving his nostrils.

    “Oh, afternoon, Sherlock,” she said when she saw him.

    He nodded, unable to quite find his words as she approached with a quizzical brow.

     “Can I assist you with something in particular?” She asked as she studied her clipboard.

    Sherlock plucked it from her grasp, causing her nose to scrunch in confusion as she glanced up at him again.

     “Wh-What?” She asked warily.

    He couldn’t help flicking his eyes once more down to her shoes. On their return journey, they paused at her ridiculously tiny waist. He had forgotten that detail, the memory of her in a black dress at Christmas a few years back roared to the forefront of his mind. He shook his head.

    “Why are you not dressed in your usual manner?”

    Molly shrugged. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

    He felt his forehead bunch and his nostrils flare. “Do you have a … _date_ tonight?”

    Sherlock tilted his head back in a stretch as his muscles tensed. It seemed his plans for the evening would have to change. If Molly was going out with someone, he had to make sure he wasn’t a criminal or psychopath. She had the odd tendency to date the most unworthy of men. However, her face fell and her eyes cast downwards. He instantly knew he was mistaken. He blinked a couple times, his eyes danced back and forth as he heard the phantom ringing of a bell deep in the recesses of his consciousness. The black flowers on the wallpaper in his mind palace began to bleed ink into the white backdrop.

    “No,” he answered for her in a hollow voice, “no, you hate this holiday. Your father died on Valentine’s Day.”

    She smiled sadly.

   “Ah, so you do remember,” she whispered.

    He cleared his throat of the uncomfortable lump that had formed. “Why are you working?”

    Molly sighed. “It was better than wallowing at home alone.”

    Normally Sherlock would lecture her on the fabricated nature of the holiday but he choked back his derision for the commercial trappings of this particular day. Molly was … lonely and there really was no justification for it. With one final look at him, she removed her lab coat and rubbed a crinkle from between her brows.

      “Sherlock, you may cease your ruminations. I am not so sad, really, I am fine. In any event, the lab’s all yours. I am finished here-”

    Sherlock stepped in front of her as she went to brush by him. She bumped into his chest which swelled and contracted like the rolling of a wave. He tossed the clipboard aside and stared down at her for a few seconds.  He wanted to banish her loneliness to the pages of her memoirs.

    “I didn’t come here for the lab,” he murmured.

    She looked up at him with unblinking eyes. Her pert nose wrinkled in adorable bewilderment.

   “Wh-Why then?”

    His gaze fell to her lips. His breaths slowed and drew out as he watched her lick them nervously. Inside his mind palace, a corner full of boxes of files on Molly Hooper stacked high to the ceiling began to topple. They crashed down and tumbled everywhere, obliterating the careful organization of his central parlor. Desperate for an anchor, some fixed point of reason, he reached for her and dragged her forwards into his arms. Her lips parted in a soft gasp. He paused there a moment, panting. Then he felt her shift ever so slightly against him and her fingers pinch a bit of his shirt. Driven by instinct, he lowered his head until their lips were but a whisper apart. Her grip on his shirt tightened. Still, he hesitated. A vortex had started spinning amidst the chaos of his mind palace. The wallpaper pulsed and flashed like the skin cells of a cephalopod.

     To his surprise, Molly pushed herself upwards on her toes and kissed him. Suddenly, everything stilled. Swirling papers and books paused in mid-air and then fluttered to the floor. The wallpaper transformed into a muted pattern of bees buzzing about cheery blossoms. Then, he snapped to reality and the feel of her mouth moving under his. He shuddered, clasped her closer and dove into the kiss. His whole body tingled as if every nerve ending had been stripped of its covering and rubbed with a soft wool cloth. His stomach felt as if the bottom of it had been opened and the contents dropped out. He was all at once lost and found with the soft curves of Molly pressed against him both eroding and reinforcing his sanity.

      Finally he pulled back just enough to regain his airway. He struggled to breathe for what felt like an eternity.

     “Sherlock,” Molly whispered, “why did you come here today of all days?”

     His fingers crept up. He pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and smoothed his fingers over her brow.

      “Molly,” his voice was suddenly resolute, “as always, I came here for . . _. you_.”


	18. The List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't have one of these?

Molly stopped in her tracks. The lab door swung closed behind her with a dull thud. Sherlock sat at her lab bench dressed in a flawless black button up shirt with the top two buttons open, revealing his throat. He was achingly gorgeous with his recently clipped curls. Her heart fluttered wildly with joy. She felt like she hadn’t seen him in ages. Then, his elegant fingers swiped a piece of paper from the bench and flicked it up as he levelled his gaze.

“What is this?”

Molly felt a plummeting feeling within her abdomen as she gazed at the piece of loose paper Sherlock wielded. She wheezed in a breath. The paper contained just one of a myriad of inane things she had been scribbling that day to pass the time as she waited for some test results from one of her lab instruments.

_“Oh, no, oh, no, oh no . . .”_

Panic sent icicles through her limbs. She couldn’t see exactly what he held and his face was an emotionless mask. His blue-grey-green eyes narrowed slightly while she stood there with what felt like a stricken look on her face. Her overly-large eyes kept darting from his steely expression to the paper. She reviewed the silly things she had been occupying her time with and felt her face begin to burn.

Amongst the doodles and musings was at least one sheet full of various ways she had practiced her signature as Molly Holmes, Mrs. Molly Holmes, M. Holmes, Ms. Molly Holmes and every other possible combination of those two names. Another paper sported a couple sketches of wedding dresses and an elaborate custom engagement ring. There was a cartoon drawing of her cat toby curled up next to a skull on a mantle. She had written a bit of smut involving a certain consulting detective. All of it, every last scratch of pencil she had put to paper that day, was an inferno of mortification ready to whirl around her like a wildfire’s twister.

“Molly Hooper, I asked you a question,” Sherlock’s low voice rolled towards her.

“I-I-I . . . I don’t know what you have there,” she choked out.

His dark brows raised ever so slightly as he held the paper out to view it. He cleared his throat.

“It says, ‘To Do List’,” he murmured, “except that it isn’t a collection of actions, it is a list of men’s names.”

Molly tucked her lip in to contain a grimace. Her toes scrunched in her shoes. The skin of her face pulsed with heat again. She rushed forward and tried to snatch the missive from his hand. He stood up and jerked the paper out of her grasp.

“Give it back!” She cried.

“Not until you tell me what it means,” he said blandly.

“None of your business,” her voice was high and breathy.

Sherlock squinted at the words again. “Who is this Benedict Cumberbatch at the top? Do I know him?”

Molly shook her head as heat washed down her chest. “He’s no one you know. J-Just an actor”

“An actor?” Sherlock scoffed. “Why are you listing names of- oh, God! Molly Hooper! Is this a compilation of men you desire?”

She thought she might die right then. His lips seemed to curl in distaste as he tried to reconcile his deduction. Finally, he dropped his hand just far enough that she was able to snatch the list from his clutches. She then turned and swept up all the other papers and marched them to the recycling bin, huffed and disposed of everything. She silently prayed he hadn’t seen anything else.

“Molly-”

“Eep!” She spun around to find herself practically underneath Sherlock’s nose.

He raised his chin, looked over his nose and scrutinized her features. “Why bother with this exercise? What purpose does creating such a list serve?”

She swallowed as she looked into his beautiful eyes. “Nothing. It was silliness, I suppose. Maybe I am just pent or something . . . yes, it has just been too long s-since Tom.”

Molly winced at her overly-truthful admission.

_“I am so ridiculous,”_ she lamented silently.

Sherlock’s face contorted as if he smelled something temporarily repugnant. “And this Benjamin-“

“Benedict!” She corrected him with a sigh.

“Benedict,” Sherlock sneered. “What is so special about him?”

Molly shrugged and cast her eyes downwards. She didn’t want to admit that Mr. Cumberbatch had an uncanny resemblance to someone she desired even more fervently. She fiddled with her fingers as it occurred to her that Sherlock would most definitely look him up at some point. That was it, she was going to have to move to Siberia when Sherlock deduced she still pined for him.

“Molly?”

“Oh, my Lord, you are incorrigible!” She growled as she raised her eyes once more. “I met him once on the train to London from Leicester. He’s nice.”

Sherlock’s head leaned slightly. “Nice? Sounds boring. Ug, did you exchange numbers? Are you planning to run away with this Broderick?”

She shook her head. “No, I am quite certain he is married and has a child.”

“Hmph,” Sherlock fished his mobile from his pocket and began thumbing the screen.

“Wh-What are you doing?”

“It doesn’t make sense that you would be attracted to a married man. I am looking up Mr. Cavendish-“

“Cumberbatch!”

“Whatever,” he grumbled.

Molly put her hand over his screen. “Sherlock, please . . . please don’t.”

He pulled the phone back. A second later his expression morphed from one of intense concentration to lips-open, blinking caught off guard. She covered her eyes. Fire raged through her flesh again.

“We could be related,” Sherlock said in a flat voice, “in fact, he looks exactly like me.”

Molly groaned as leaned back against the lab bench at her back. “Yes, of course he does.”

He moved closer and suddenly, she felt crowded. When she removed her hand, he hovered over her. His eyes contracted.

“Why aren’t I at the top of this list then?”

She inhaled a thread breath as she watched his lips move pointedly. “Truthfully? I-I think my odds of hooking up with Benedict are better, married and all . . .”

He stretched his neck as his eyes wandered her face, pausing on her lips. He licked his own before recapturing her gaze and leaning closer.

“You think so, do you? Well, care to make a wager?”


	19. A New Look

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, seven years later on the BBC show, I want to see a new look for Sherlock. Give us short curls! *drool* Pretty please?

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Molly peeked through the peep-hole on her flat’s door. At first, all she could see was a coiling mass of shiny curls. Then, the mass lifted and the exaggerated, fish-bowl vision of Sherlock’s large, stormy-ocean irises filled her viewport. His nose wrinkled comically, a second later his lips enlarged as he raised them and spoke almost directly into her eyeball.

    “Molly, I know you are there. Come, you must recognize my knock by now,” his voice reverberated through the door.

     She glanced down at her skimpy, yellow cotton tank and oversized flannel, pink plaid bottoms. She sighed. He’d seen her in worse at least. With a quick intake of breath, she fixed a perturbed expression on her face and swung open the door.

    “I was just about to hop into bed,” she claimed as she held open the door, “what do you want?”

    In his typical Sherlockian manner, he raised his brows while also squinting. His eyes flicked from shoulder to shoulder, down the middle of her chest and then looped back up as if he wasn’t quite certain where he should look. Molly felt heat spread across her upper chest at the awkward look on his face.  His lips parted but instead of speaking, he held up scissors in his right hand followed jauntily by a fine-toothed comb in his left. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

    “I need a haircut,” he stated.

    She frowned. “Am I to take that to mean you want me to trim your hair? At ten o’clock at night … o-on a Tuesday?”

    “Yes,” he brushed past her into her flat as if the matter were already settled, “I am in want of a disguise for a bit of sleuthing I must do tonight.”

    Molly blinked in disbelief and snapped her door shut. She slowly spun on her heel, crossed her arms and watched Sherlock busy himself with the setup of an impromptu salon. He discarded his shoes and jacket and then, she swallowed thickly, he extracated himself from his  _shirt_! Her eyes burned unblinkingly. The muscles of his back flexed with the depositing of one of her dining-set chairs in the middle of her living room. An instant later, he draped a towel over his shoulders, sat in the chair with his wide back to her and levetated his scissors.

    “I am under a bit of a time constraint here, Molly,” he murmured without turning around.

    She tentatively approached him, rubbing her arms. “Sh-Sherlock, I have never styled anyone’s hair before! I will make a hash out of it!”

    He turned his head so she could see just one brooding eye. “Molly, I have watched you stitch countless corpses. You have the most finesse and dexterity of any person in my acquaintance and … I trust you. Well, I trust you not to draw blood. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have the steadiest hands, you know, and I don’t particularly want John fondling my head. That would be a little, erm - uncomfortable, to say the least.”

     He swivelled fully in his seat and stared up at her with slightly rounded eyes. His unique, angular bone structure was so breathtakingly handsome up close and lord, but he had decided to turn on his boyish appeal. His features softened.

    “Please, Molly?” He rumbled.

    Her entire face felt tight as she tried to resist his charms. A muscle flecked in his cheek and she knew he was putting her on but she groaned and snatched the scissors and comb from his grasp.

    “Fine,” she muttered, “do not even think of complaining if you don’t care for the results.”

    He grinned and twisted away. “Excellent! Take a couple inches off, will you?”

    Molly stared at the back of his head for a few seconds. She reached up to touch his locks but her fingers hovered in hesitation. She had always wanted to touch his hair. Right then, she was a heartbeat away of finally experiencing its decadence and almost couldn’t stand the anticipation. Her belly quivered. Finally, she gathered her courage and delved her fingers into the thick, silky tresses. She closed her eyes as the strands slipped between her knuckles and the pads of her fingers contacted his warm head. Lord, but it felt better than she imagined. She pushed her hand over his scalp several times to assess the length of his hair. Her eyes flew open when she thought she heard the sound of a low moan.

    “S-Sorry!” She whispered.

    “Mm? Oh, no, it feels good,” he mumbled, “but the massage will have to wait for another time.”

    Her breath caught in her throat. She shook her head. He couldn’t really mean that, could he? She chewed her lip and willed her raging hormones into submission. Tentatively, she pulled up the first section of his hair, mouthed a eulogy for his beautiful curls and began snipping. Cautiously at first, and then more confidently, she trimmed his hair. The ends of it fell like feathers to the towel around his shoulders. Every once in a while when her attention drifted from her task to admire his half-naked, steely form, her hands shook. However, she soldiered on. 

    Molly’s fears about reducing his attractiveness were quickly dispelled. The more she trimmed and closer she cut, the more she revealed the strong lines of his neck and head. It was impossible to make this man unappealing, she realized. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to cut the hair on the top of his head too short. Thirty minutes after she had started, she shook the towel out her window and then returned for her final review. She stood in front of him with her hands on either side of his head and assessed her very first attempt at a haircut. A smile tugged the corners of her lips. He lifted his chin.

    “Well?” He murmured.

    She fluffed his hair, dragged her fingers along the shorter sides and flicked a coil of curl that still wanted to fall over his forehead. He looked god awfully handsome. His high cheeks were more visible, his eyes appeared brighter. Her regard slid over his face. Even his jaw seemed a bit more robust.

    “You look good,” she uttered absentmindedly, then caught herself, “I-I mean, y-you look nice … fine, I guess. Haha, maybe I am in the wrong career … yes, maybe I should have gone to-to beauty school . . .”

    She knew she was rambling as her fingers kneaded his scalp. His eyes were suddenly fixed on her face and she palpably felt his acute dissection. Her stomach coiled in a knot and her cheeks flushed. Mortification burned right from one side of her face, across her nose, to the other side. Even her ears flamed. She avoided his direct eye contact for as long as she could but eventually lost the battle. When their eyes met, his pupils were as large as she had ever seen them.

    “You are exactly where you are meant to be, Molly,” he murmured.

    “Oh? This is my calling, is it?” She teased nervously. “Tending to Sherlock Holmes’ every whim?”

    She felt a tug on the waistband of her bottoms and was compelled forward. Her legs nearly turned to jelly as he pulled her between his knees.

    “Yes,” his eyes narrowed seductively, “that is something for which you are uniquely qualified.”


	20. A New Look parts 2 and 3 (cont. from prev chapter)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finish of an encounter after Molly cuts Sherlock's hair. Ends with explicit smutty goodness, watch out.

"Wh-What are you doing?“ Molly whispered.

Her fingers jittered anxiously on his temples where his newly shortened hair felt a bit like silky straw. Sherlock’s full lips were so close, she could see a sheen of moisture just along their inside edges. She couldn’t take her eyes from them as they tweaked up at the corner.

"Thanking you,” he murmured.

She sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers crept under her tank. She was surprised by the slight abrasiveness of his calloused digits and the incredible heat of his hand as it slipped around her waist. Her flesh tingled all the way to where his fingers spread out and he urged her forwards by the small of her back. As he drew her closer still, she was forced to steady herself on his bare shoulders. Hormones flooded her system in a total betrayal of her good sense. All of a sudden, she was hyper-aware of every fraction of his flesh under her arms and the way his hand spanned from nearly one side of her lower back to the other. One by one, his fingers tensed, gently pressing into her skin. Her heart started pounding. His pupils had nearly obliterated his irises. His whole form lifted and fell with every breath. Each dragged from his lungs more ragged than the last.

"Doesn’t th-thanking me normally involve crime solving or something of that nature?“ She panted mere millimeters from his mouth.

His other hand travelled up her leg to rest on her hip where his thumb rubbed absentmindedly along her hip bone through her bottoms.

"Only as a poor alternative when the subject of your gratitude is not free to accept something more,” he muttered.

"Oh, Lord, m-more?“

He nodded, feathered his lips against hers and groaned. "Molly-”

She found herself insanely nervous as she realized he wasn’t just flirting with her. She panicked. There was no way the man she had been infatuated with well … forever, could possibly reciprocate any feelings for her, could he? She thought she might blow a blood vessel in her brain at any moment from the sheer shock of it. 

"Sherlock, I-I …you … don’t you have sleuthing to do?“

"I am in the midst of it,” he replied in a low tone and kissed her neck.

She closed her eyes involuntarily. “Y-You said you needed a disguise, though.”

Molly almost collapsed as his lips sort of suckled her neck. She linked her arms behind his neck and moaned involuntarily. 

"What if I told you it was all a ruse?“ He mumbled against her throat. "That I turned over in my bed and realized I didn’t want another night to pass without knowing your touch?”

She looked down at him incredulously the same moment he lifted his face and glanced up. “I wouldn’t believe y-you.”

His eyes twitched and slanted. “Hmm, then I guess I will have to convince you otherwise.”

(Part 3 below . . .)

Molly couldn’t catch her breath. Sherlock’s eyes bore into hers like as if his desire was a serpent trying to burrow beneath her skin. She licked her lips nervously. His eyes dipped and he watched her tongue disappear back into her mouth.

“Alright,” her arms tightened around his neck, her fingers rubbed the stubby little hairs on his nape, “convince me … you … you w-want me.”

His nostrils flared as he regarded her and for a terrifying moment she thought he might admit that his confession had been false. However, with his newly trimmed locks exposing his beautiful face she could see every glorious measure of him and detected no hint of deception. Then he moved. She nearly jumped out of her skin as his head drifted towards hers and then paused. Anxious pangs shot through her abdomen as he hovered. Their noses bumped gently and he tilted his head slightly. Her greedy, opened mouth followed his but instead of kissing her, he laughed softly.

“Hmm, your skin is flushed, your breathing is labored and you are trembling in my arms,” his fingers pressed into her bare back, “I don’t know that I need to do much more, Molly. I think you’re already convinced.”

“Sherlock!”

“Mm, hmm?”

“Oh, God! Kiss me already,” she breathed.

His eyes hooded. His free hand left her hip and reached up to palm the side of her head. An instant later, she felt his warm breath pulse against her lips and then, his mouth sought hers. A thousand tiny fireworks exploded in her tummy like party sparklers as she felt the insistent demand of his lips. Starved, she fell forward and kissed him back, hard. She realized she was desperate for this. Years and years she had dreamt about snogging Sherlock and it was pure decadent insanity actually having his mouth feed from hers. Her insides washed over and over with a frenetic fission. Then with a growling sound, his tongue plunged into her mouth and found its counterpart. The wet friction of its velvety surface sliding and thrusting against her flesh caused her nether regions to erupt with sudden need.

It was in that instant when the copulation of their tongues was akin to snakes writhing together that their encounter recklessly escalated. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough to just be kissing like horny teenagers, their clothes had to go. Molly broke away to yank her tank over her head. Sherlock fumbled with and then unclasped her bra. They stood up together and kept kissing one another clumsily between the abandonment of each new article of clothing. Sherlock nearly toppled over as he stomped out of his trousers and underwear. In short order, they fell back onto Molly’s flowered sofa in a tangle of limbs and bodies rubbing together.

“Molly,” Sherlock groaned as he ground his ridiculously hard erection against her lower stomach, “oh, Christ, Molly, I need to be inside you.”

She gripped fistfuls of his short curls as he kissed her neck. She couldn’t believe what was happening. Sherlock’s heavy body pinned her to her sofa, her breasts were mashed up against his chest, his long, thick cock seared her belly, her core was hot and spasms kept infusing it with more heat and wetness. It was madness, but her limited patience had run out. She felt hollow and achy and needy which she knew only he could remedy.

“Yes, Sherlock, ummmm, please? Please! I need that too.”

He shuddered at her plea, shifted and his hand moved between her legs where Molly was more than ready for him. His fingers slipped through her slickness. He made a deep guttural sound in his throat and then she felt something larger and wider rub intimately against her entrance. The swollen mass pressed forward and pushed open her entry. She hissed in a breath as her flesh stretched.

“Oh, dear Lord,” she panted at the delicious feel of his invasion. “Unh, oh … fuck!”

Molly spread her legs to relieve the pressure but it kept increasing until she felt his head breach her interior. Sherlock grunted, cursed and slammed forwards. She gasped as the thick, rutted length of him plunged deep into her womb like a steely piston.

“Hu-uh!” She cried. “Oh, fff- unh. Yes, Sherlock! Oh, my God.”

She let her head fall back as she savored the taut feel of his tight fit. If ever she felt fulfilled in her life, this was the moment. She shifted her hips up to allow him to seat himself to the hilt and groaned when he sank that little bit further and his hips pressed down on hers. Her hands slid under his arms and gripped his round arse. Her breaths scalded her lips as the surreal became real. Sherlock, her veritable obsession from the moment she had met him, was embedded within her like a horny stake. She squeezed him once and his breath hitched. His hips jerked. Her skin flashed hot.

“Molly,” he seemed to sense something, “are you good?”

“Yes,” she kissed him once shyly, “s-so good. Please … more …”

Sherlock chased her lips and kissed her as he gave a little thrust. She clung to him, kissing him back greedily until what was happening between her thighs overwhelmed her senses and she whimpered on his lips. Sherlock inhaled a deep breath, dropped his forehead to her shoulder, braced himself on the couch and began to pump more vigorously. His shaft withdrew cautiously at first, thrusting back inside her body slowly before he began to wheeze with the effort to control his movements. Molly squeezed his bum as it flexed and urged him on. She salivated every time his muscles tightened because she knew another stroke of pleasure would follow. Soon, her clit throbbed like the long drawn out pluck of a bass. Each stroke increased the pitch of her vibration, like a bow sliding over an ever tightening string. Every nerve in her body hummed impatiently to that tune until the racket became too much. Then, as if his playing had become too frantic, the string let loose and the crack of its snap reverberated from her clit inwards and then outwards to the rest of her body. Over and over, spasms wracked her form. She sobbed from the absolute relief of it.

“Molly,” Sherlock then cursed, “hell!”

His large form tensed under her hands. He plunged into her a final time and then his member jerked and she felt the emptying of it as he came. His frame shook from one end to the other, then he deflated onto his elbows like a collapsing balloon. For a moment, they laid there still entwined while his hips pulsed as if echoing what they had just finished. When Molly moved beneath him to get more comfortable. He quickly sat up on the sofa, pulling her up with him until she was seated on his lap with his shaft still inside her.

Light blue eyes regarded her softly with a look of wonder as he cradled her face. He was still breathing heavily, his newly shorter hair stuck to his head, a sheen of sweat glinted off his forehead but he had never looked more attractive to Molly.

“Well, soooo … there you have it,” he said between heavy pants as he searched her face, “God … you … you are so beautiful.”

She blushed furiously as she cast her eyes down at his naked form. “Erm, y-you are too, like … every inch of you is perfect.”

“I’m not,” he murmured, “but I feel that way when I’m with you.”


	21. In Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This may induce cavities. Sweetness level at 2 cans of Coca Cola. Enjoy.

Molly felt her heart flutter in her chest as she gazed at her husband buzzing around the parlor at 221B Baker Street. They had been married six months but she still found herself in disbelief that their relationship was real at times. However, her most fervent dreams _had_ come true. Sherlock Holmes was her husband and not only that, he was the other half of the tiny little life inhabiting her womb.

“Aha,” he exclaimed as he retrieved a shopping tote from behind his chair, “I knew it had to be around here somewhere." 

Molly shifted on the sofa as he neared. The plastic of the bag crinkled noisily as he extracted what looked like an odd hump of a pillow.

She blinked several times. "What is this?”

“Leg support,” he cleared a spot on the coffee table and set down the pillow.

“Leg support? I’m only a few weeks pregnant, Mr. Holmes. I do not think I will be needing this for quite some time.”

His lips poked out as he stared down at the pillow. 

“I … em, it-it is quite daunting to choose a gift for you in your condition, I haven’t any notion of how to adequately … _reward?_ …you,” he murmured with a wrinkle between his brows, “but I overheard a pair of pregnant women complaining about their feet in the third shop I visited. So, when I found this in the fifth shop …”   

Sherlock’s voice died. 

He scratched his head as he looked up with her with rounded eyes.   
“It … it has cherries on it.”

Molly tucked in her lip to prevent a smile. She loved him so much right then that she thought her heart might actually burst. One by one, she lifted her legs atop the pillow. She could cry when she saw the pattern. There were, in fact, cherries printed on the cover.

“This is very comfortable, actually. Thank-you,” she gulped down a lump.

Sherlock slipped into the seat at her right and grabbed her hands. He kissed every finger before raising his head.

“I am ridiculous,” he muttered.

“No!” She giggled. “Oh, you darling man, you visited five shops? To reward me? Whatever on earth for?”

He dropped his gaze and rubbed his thumbs over the back of her hands. “For making me so happy.”

He kissed her hands again and lingered over her knuckles. He had been doing that a lot lately.

“You make me happy too but also ecstatic and deliriously joyful all the time,” she said quickly, “I love you so much it hurts.”

His eyes were misty when he looked up at her once more. “L-Likewise.”

Again, lips feathered over her flesh.

“Y-You don’t have to keep doing that,” she whispered.

“Mm, indulge me,” his voice rumbled against her hands, “you smell of cleanser and tea leaves and orange blossoms - three of my favorite things, I’ve determined. Everything I adore about you can be found by appreciating these glorious hands. They have been my punishment and my salvation and now they determine my fate because of what they hold.”

Molly’s pulse quickened. “Oh? What is that?”

His eyes softened. “My heart, Molly Holmes. My heart is in your hands.”


	22. You can have me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For my Brits on this crazy, historic day of your Brexit. Lots of love to you all. This chapter is not meant as any kind of opinion on the results either way, just solidarity with you and hopes for the best.

Molly switched off her television and jumped up from her sofa. She couldn’t watch anymore coverage on the Brexit. She stood there a moment in her flat with her ears still ringing. She closed her eyes. In her mind, images of the reactions of her fellow Brits played like a silent movie reel. Some were overjoyed, some angry, others just splotchy faces full of confusion. She felt as if she shared the latter end of the reactions. She was anxious. What would become of her country? 

Suddenly, her small flat seemed as deafeningly quiet as an empty museum. In the end, she hadn’t been entirely certain what the right answer was when she stood in the polling booth the previous day. She had realized in a stark moment of clarity that just having to answer the question of whether to remain or stay in the EU meant pain was inevitable either way. Their politicians, the people they hired to sort this out, could not solve this problem. She had been incredibly angry at them for shirking their responsibilities in that instant because they had forced her to answer this impossible question and who was she to decide the fate of a nation? Instead of working on the problems, they had pushed them down the plate. It shouldn’t have been a question of one extreme or the other, in her mind. 

Tears slipped down her cheeks. She didn’t know what to do with herself. She felt riveted in place.

A knock sounded at the door. She thought about ignoring it and wallowing but was able to move one foot, then the other until she reached her entry. With one fortifying breath, she swung open the door to see Sherlock Holmes standing in the corridor outside her flat.

For several seconds, they regarded one another. Slowly, a sense of gravity returned to her feet as she took in the stoic vision of him in his dark Belstaff. He was meticulously clean shaven; his curls were perfectly disseminated. His crystalline, blue eyes narrowed as they always did when he scrutinized her in that manner. She inhaled another steadying breath. At least some things never changed. She stepped aside and swung open the door.

Sherlock dipped his head but instead of walking past her, he stepped close, kicked shut the door and pulled her up against him. Her mouth fell open as she found herself chest to chest with the large detective.

“Sherlock?” She breathed.

His hold tightened on her waist. “Molly, I have spent the morning trying to sort this all out in my head, I have agonized over every possible outcome for our country but I can no more see the answer than I can see a ripple in the ocean on the other side of our world. There is so much uncertainty in life … however, I kept coming back to one thing, one constant that kept me sane.”

She swallowed. “A-And what was that?”

“You,” he murmured, “you love me, do you not?”

Molly held her breath for a moment but then let it out in a long, ragged exhalation. “Yes, yes, of course I do. I always have.”

Something flashed through his expression, as if he were pricked with a dart. Then, his features relaxed and he gazed down at her with an openness she had never seen before.

“Good. I needed to hear that I was right about something … you have no idea how vexing it can be when a mind like mine is all a jumble-”

She gripped the lapels of his coat and frowned. “What!? Sherlock Holmes, you had better not just been manipulating me to appease that fragile ego of yours!”

He stared down at her for a tick through constricted eyes. A heartbeat later, his head descended and his lips covered hers. Molly nearly collapsed from the shock of it. Fingers flexed on her lower back and with a moan, she kissed him back and the world and all its problems fell away. After a thorough snog, Sherlock lifted his head.

“B-Better?” He asked.

“Y-Yes,” she whispered, “infinitely.”

“I will always try to do better where you are concerned, Molly,” he traced a finger over her brow, “you can count on me now. Whatever may be. Whatever comes of things, you . . . you will have me.”


	23. Late to the Party. A Sherlolly Pillow Fight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock stop by John and Mary's hotel room before the wedding.

     “Oh my word, this is gorgeous, Sherlock!” Molly sighed as she looked around the Royal suite at the infamous Goring Hotel near Buckingham Palace. “This must have cost you a fortune.”

      Sherlock shrugged and smoothed his hands over the lapels of his tuxedo. “A small fortune, yes, but I am not in arrears. Mycroft paid for it.”

     For a moment, she just admired him in his formal getup. Only Sherlock Holmes could get away with wearing tails in this day and age. Her heart fluttered. He looked godawfully perfect, actually, the quintessential English groom. It was just too bad he wasn’t her groom instead of John Watson’s best man.

     She snapped out of her reverie and blinked at him. “I-I did not think Mycroft admired John and Mary enough to give them such a generous wedding gift.”

     “Well, he does not know about it actually,” he murmured with a self-satisfied smirk, “my brother has unwittingly paid for this through one of his operational expense accounts. I expect he’ll find out eventually but not soon enough to reverse the charges.”

    Molly wrinkled her nose. “You two, honestly!”

    He cracked a broader smile. “Do not feel bad for Mycroft. He is indebted to me.”

     Molly giggled, twirled in her yellow dress and indulged herself in a micro-daydream. She envisioned for the briefest of moments that she and Sherlock were retiring for the evening in the opulent suite after exchanging vows. Then she gave herself a shake. Her face flushed with heat. Her stomach felt like someone dropped a rock down her throat. She choked up a bit. She didn’t know why she should feel so melancholy. At least she had found someone after pining away for so long for an indifferent bloke and she was to be married . . . to Tom. A dream come true (or so she told herself every night after he turned off the bedside lamp and she stared up at the ceiling for a good hour).

     “Well, shall we get to _decorating_?” Sherlock interrupted her self-pity party.

     “Oh,” Molly gulped, “erm, y-yes!”

      She had begged the reluctant detective to let her decorate John and Mary’s room. She had wanted to contribute to their special day rather than just consuming their food and spirits at the wedding. She grabbed a bouquet of white and yellow roses and slapped them in his hands.

     “Spread these around.”

      His brow contorted. “What? Where?”

      She winked at him. “Anywhere they might make love. The sofa, the bathroom, the bedroom . . .”

      Sherlock sneered down at the flowers. Then he twisted a bunch of petals from on of the buds and headed towards the piano. Molly snickered. He held up a finger as he walked away.

     “You said anywhere.”

     She laughed aloud then went about her own business. She had a whole bag of goodies. She put cheap, sweet champagne in the little fridge (a much better indulgence than the expensive dry shite that burned one’s glands out on the way down) and arranged a small plate of truffles from her favorite chocolate shop. She setup candles and sticks of aromatic incense around the bath along with some lavender soap she knew would froth up like whipped cream. Next to the bed she left some novelty furry handcuffs and a pink riding crop. The whole while, Sherlock contented himself meticulously spreading the petals.

     Then, in a fit of silliness, she stripped down to her white slip and jumped on the bed. Sherlock walked into the bedroom just as she was gleefully destroying its composure. The expression on his face was a combination of shock and horrified confusion.

     “Wh-Wh-What are y-you doing?” He stuttered.

     “It’s tradition!” She panted and blew a lock of hair from her face. “You have to make it look like someone else beat them to it.”

     His head tilted in bewilderment. “But then they will think that we . . .  you know.”

     She picked up a pillow and threw it at him. “Nah, it’s just for a lark, Sherlock Holmes! Mary will get it.”

     He caught the pillow and shook his head as he returned it to the bed. A fit of lunacy overcame Molly and she whacked him with the other pillow. He glowered at her as he smoothed back his hair.

     “Do not do-”

     She whacked him again and hopped back out of the way. Then, next thing she knew, he had spun out of his suit jacket and they were engaged in a full on pillow fight. Molly found herself giggling like a child; delighted that she seemed to be getting the better of him (though he appeared to be going easy on her). At one point, she had the advantage and pummeled his bent frame but then he lunged onto the bed and grabbed her ankle. With a quick jerk of his hand she felt her equilibrium shift, her stomach lurch and she fell to the bed with a shriek and a bounce. In a heartbeat, his legs tangled with hers and he pinned her with his considerable weight.

     That was how she found herself under Sherlock Holmes, gazing up at his flushed cheeks and ruffled curls. His pupils blew wide as he scanned her face. He yanked the pillow from her hands and tossed it aside. She glanced down shyly at his chest. His cream silk tie hung askew. A couple buttons had popped open. His heavy breaths seemed to lift his whole frame. She swallowed, suddenly terrified to look him in the eye.

    “You must know you cannot possibly win against me,” his deep voice vibrated through her whole being.

     “You assume I want to win.”

     “Don’t you?”

     She drew in a shaky little breath, peered up at him and shook her head. His eyes were nearly black with just a rim of his lovely blue-green irises visible. He shifted his weight and she felt  . . . she felt his eagerness. Her lips parted in shock.

     “Bloody hell, y-you’re . . . you’re keen.”

     His nostril twitched. He pressed his lips together in thought but then nodded once.

     “Yes, I am.”

     “F-For me?”

     He rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course for you. There is no one else here.”

     Sherlock shuffled off her and stood up. He helped her off the bed.

     “Forgive me, Molly. We should go. We will have a discussion later about my . . . _reaction_ to you. Now is probably not the time. We have a wedding to attend.”

     Molly shook her head. “Yeah, right. Yes, you are one-hundred percent correct.”

     No matter what came of their discussion, Molly already knew she had spent too long deluding herself and this encounter had proved it. She wasn’t going to marry Tom. Maybe nothing would come of her talk with Sherlock, but she knew one thing, she couldn’t settle for less. Not anymore.    


	24. Eternity, Sherlolly Angst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling melancholy about our chaotic world when I wrote this scene.

A dark, hazy cloud full of lightning and filled with thunderous noise retreated from Molly’s view like some sort of globulous entity shrinking away. In the midst of this strange nebula were images and sounds she recognized as anxious and fearful; an incredibly blinding flash followed by vibrations and screaming. In its dearth was a blackness like nothing she had ever experienced. She tried to open her eyes but for several moments nothing happened. It was as if she was no longer in possession of lids.

Then she felt the first stirrings of a breeze that was so gentle and comforting she thought she might be floating in a lake warmed by the heat of a summer’s day. She wiggled her fingers. They tingled and subsequently, she felt the whisper of an almost intangible fluid slip between them. Not water, not wet, but not dry either. Finally, she managed to blink into the next level of consciousness but there was blackness there as well.

Molly strained to discern any kind of shape as she could feel her eyes again. For a few seconds, she thought she might be blind but then far-off pin-points of light winked into view. Soon, she found she was looking at the night sky in as glorious an intensity as she had ever seen. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her lungs burned with the effort and that palpable stinging sensation precipitated a propulsion into an even more intimate view of the milky way as if she’d been thrust a million light years closer.

She stared in awe at it as it seemed to pulse with life. The thought struck her that this was not normal. She looked around and found she was twisting in a great pocket of nothingness. She panicked and flailed her limbs only to realize she was enveloped by space. She was drifting in space.

Loneliness slapped her like a shock wave. She was utterly confused. How could this be? 

“Molly,” A deep intonation rattled the universe.

A tear ran down her face. “Sh-Sherlock?”

She felt the soft glide of his thumb pad as he corralled her tear but she couldn’t see him.

“Sherlock!” She cried.

“It is okay, Molly, I am here.”

And he was. In the next heartbeat he was there with his pale, ethereal face just inches from her own. His hands cupped her face as he stared down at her with vivid, back-lit blue-green irises. His skin glowed in contrast to the shadowed collar of his great coat. A smile curved his lips.

“Wh-What has happened?” She whispered.

A fleeting frown furrowed his brow. “You died. I am sorry.”

She hiccuped and felt her features contort in misery. “What? A-Are you certain?”

He nodded. Her chest tightened and her shoulders shuddered. How could she be dead when she felt every miserable inch of her cold flesh? How could she be dead if she could feel his breaths on her face?

“I don’t understand. Where are we?”

His lips turned up in a smile once more. “Well, it must be heaven if you are here.”

Molly studied his face. In that instant, his skin appeared somewhat translucent and the sky behind him became visible. She felt a sickening rise of panic.

“No!” She tried to clutch at him but her hands swished through vapors. “No! Please!”

“I can’t follow you, Molly,” she heard him rumble as his visage faded.

“Sherlock!” She called. “Don’t go! Please, I wasn’t finished. I had so much more to do. I had so much more to say t-to you. Oh, God! Oh, God, I can still feel your hands on my face … hu-uh.”

“I can’t follow you, Molly,” his voice was distant, “but … maybe . . you can find me.”

The feel of his rough hands lightened and suddenly she was thrashing in the void against the invisible wisps. She found herself almost swimming in place for a few moments with tears pouring down her cheeks.

“I-I can’t! I can’t!”

Then she became angry and hot and in her seething about everything she had been denied, gravity gathered in the center of her being. Every cell in her body collapsed and compressed until she felt indescribably heavy. The stars around her lurched and began to rotate. Their movement was slow at first, then increased in momentum until they were spinning so swiftly that they blurred into streaks. In the next second, they were falling in on her like liquid lightning sucked into a vacuum. 

“Sherlock!” The light was so intense she thought her eyes would burn from her sockets. “Sherlock!”

“Molly,” his voice was deafening, “you are killing me. Please, I am in hell. Stop this … j-just stop it.”

She was so frustrated. She waved her hands around. 

“What can I do? Tell me what to do!”

“Find your strength. Use it. Find me!”

In the blistering light she finally slapped her left hand into something warm and solid. She felt fingers squeeze her own and squashed them in return. She was nearly crying in relief.

“Sherlock?”

“Molly!”

The light took the form of a long rectangle. She blinked a few times. Gravity shifted and something semi-soft slammed into her back. Familiar, chemical smells prickled her nostrils. Pain erupted all over her form as if she’d been battered with batons. She sucked in a quivering breath as she felt the dull prick of something in the back of her right hand and an itchy sensation travelling the length of her arm. She groaned.

The shadow of a head loomed over her and the face of a dark angel came into sharp focus. Her fingers were squeezed again. Sherlock, in all his glory with eyes rimmed in red smiled down at her as if she were a riddle he had just solved.

“Hello.”

Molly winced at the force of her pain. “I am … a-at Bart’s?”

He nodded.

“What h-happened?”

His expression went grim momentarily. “You died.”

“But I-I am not dead now.”

He shook his head and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “No, you are only mostly dead.”

“Why?”

He swallowed.

“There was a bombing. I will tell you more about it later but you were near it. Some shrapnel pierced your lung and grazed your heart. You have had surgery and expected to survive. Erm, this is a very recent prognosis,” he mumbled, "and not an expert opinion by any means. Though, I do fancy myself skilled enough to make this determination-”

“Sherlock,” she wheezed.

“Mm?”

“Be,” she heaved a breath, “quiet. I … need … to … tell … you … something.”

He looked nervous all of a sudden. “No you don’t.”

“Yes … I … do-”

“No, actually, you do not. You love me. I know this. Genius, remember? But yes, I suppose you have not communicated this to me verbally before but I did, in fact, know. However, you knew that I knew, did you not?”

She sighed and wrinkled her nose. “A-Arse! What is … your … point?”

“Well, then you didn’t come back to make a confession but to obtain one.”

“Wr- …Wrong,” she panted.

He crooked a brow.

“I  … forgot … to shut … off my o-ven.”

Sherlock laughed and stroked her face while a tear rolled from his eye. “Christ, I love you. Do not ever frighten me like that again.”

“A-And I love you, Sherlock,” she closed her eyes from fatigue, “stay … with … me?”

“Always, Molly Hooper, always,” he kissed her forehead, “I would be adrift without _you_.”


	25. Upload, Sherlolly Reply

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The public finds out Molly is Sherlock's girlfriend. Molly's blog goes nuts.

Molly rapidly blinked at her screen as she clutched the lapels of her robe together. The previous day, John had casually referred to her as Sherlock’s girlfriend in his blog. Since then, her own page had been inundated with messages. She had almost forgot she still had the thing until she started receiving notifications from it. Fast and furious they had come - mostly furious.

_“…Fame whore!… What, are you pregnant?… Gonna fake a baby to trap him?… Have fun while it lasts… What’s so special about you?… You are so mousey… Sherlock Holmes needs a strong woman…You’re too old for him… You’re his beard, lmfao… He’s just using you… He’s fucking Irene A… You’re a loser, a zero!… Are you blackmailing him?… Total publicity stunt…. Why the PR?…”_

Molly heard movement behind her and jumped as a shadow cast across her desk. She quickly minimized the page she’d been viewing and swivelled in her chair. Her face flushed as she glanced up at a nearly naked Sherlock swaddled only in a towel around his hips. He rubbed moisture from his hair with a second towel as he gazed down at her with a quizzical twist to his brow.

“What is it?” His eyes narrowed.

She gulped down a lump in her throat as the hateful messages looped through her brain. She could almost hear the invectives hurled at her as if they were jeering kids. She felt her face heat. She was embarrassed and a little emotionally frantic. She didn’t want to tell him. She felt that if she even began to explain, she would break down. Her tear ducts started to swell and burn.

Sherlock’s head turned ever so slightly as he studied her expression. He flung the towel in his hand over a nearby chair as he moved closer.

“You do know you cannot hide things from me, right?”

Molly tried to speak but her lip quivered. She cast her eyes towards the floor and nodded. In an instant, he had crouched down. He gently cupped her face and urged her to look at him. His eyes were filled with concern.

“Tell me,” he murmured as he rubbed a thumb on her jaw.

“I-It’s nothing, really,” she whispered, “j-just some kids wanking on my blog, I think.”

“May I see?”

Molly nodded again and sighed as he stood and leaned over the desk. She clicked open the page on her laptop and peered up at him as he scanned the messages. She watched a muscle in his jaw harden. The muscles across his shoulder and back bunched as well as if he prepared for war. His face took on fierce battle mask. It was … it was more than a little bit sexy.

“None of this is true, Molly,” he glowered at the screen before glancing down at her out of the corner of his eye, “unless, you want it to be.”

Her breath caught. Her lips formed an ‘o’.

“Wh-uh-aaa-t?”

Sherlock grabbed the arms of her chair, wheeled her towards him and leaned down. His towel slipped and she couldn’t help sliding her focus down past his navel where the hard incline of his stomach angled in parallel to his hip. The scrap of lavender terrycloth held on by the friction of but a few loose folds. Her eyes jerked back up his frame to where he smirked knowingly.

“Wh-What do you mean, Sherlock?”

He licked his lips as he traced a finger down her chest towards the lapels of her bathrobe.

“Do you want to trap me?”

She thought she would die of overheating as her face flashed hot. Saliva built up in her mouth and she swallowed several times.

“Y-You mean … like, become pregnant? H-Have a baby? With y-you? Do _you_ want to be trapped?”

For a moment, her heart stopped as she awaited his reply. Then, a supremely satisfied expression, an almost smugness, relaxed his features.

“I want you to lock me up and throw away the key. I want a damned shotgun wedding with you hopelessly trying to conceal a swollen belly. I want everyone to disapprove of my recklessness. I want them all to doubt us because then it is truly us against the rest of the world and the truth, our truth, will be ours and ours alone,” he growled, “and yes, I have run out of patience and incidentally, rubbers, but I have never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Molly gaped at him. A different sort of heat infused every inch of her flesh.

“Dear God,” she rasped, “you are cracked but I love you.”

Sherlock leaned forward, his mouth partially open for an erotic, tongue stroking kiss. She heard the the sound of a faux camera shutter snap from her computer and then another as his lips and tongue did their magic. When he lifted his head, his breaths were scorching on her moist lips.

“So, Molly Hooper, because I am most definitely and desperately in love with you, will you be my wife and bear my children, and not necessarily in that order?” His deep voice rumbled.

“Hell, yes,” she panted, “oh, hell, yes, Sherlock Holmes. Make me irreversibly yours.”

She peeked at the laptop to see the perfect profile shot of their tongues meeting just as they started to kiss. There could be no mistake about what would follow.

He grinned. “Best way to answer the skeptics, mm? Do I have your permission to upload this?”

“Upload away,” she breathed.

His brows twitched. “That is my intention.”

 

 

 

And now, part 2 . . . . . .

 

Molly chewed her lip as she reached for the towel at Sherlock’s waist. The smile on his became downright devilish.

“I would live stream our encounter,” he said in his lowest tone as he hovered over her, “but I do not know if I want to share you.”

She felt her sex flush between her legs. Her toes wiggled against the floor beneath the chair upon which she quaked in anticipation. Again her insides washed with a delicious sensation as she imagined herself bent over the desk while Sherlock slammed into her body. He squinted and tugged at the tie at her waist. Her robe loosened. He drifted even nearer.

“Why do I think you are not at all averse to that idea?” He breathed against her lips. “Hmm, naughty girl?”

Molly’s face warmed and she shrugged shyly as she slipped the towel from his hips and sought his stiff, smooth shaft. His low laugh rattled her lips, then he sucked in a breath and swore as her fingers gripped his cock.

“Huh,” he huffed, “ye-es, I think you would like an audience very much.”

“M-Maybe a little,” she whispered, embarrassed, but too turned on to think rationally.

Her hand stroked down the length of his member and back up. In the space of her next inhalation, he pulled her to her feet, rolled the chair away with his foot, and pushed her robe off her shoulders. She kicked the garment aside and plastered herself against him even though it was like getting too close to an iron, he was that warm. His plush, fleshy lips devoured her own. His rigid member jutted hard against her tummy.  His hands were so large that they had to trail after each other down her back in order to maximize their contact with her skin.

“Unh, my little exhibitionist,” he groaned, “here’s my compromise since I am loathe to share too much of you. I am going to turn on the camera but cover the lens. What do you say? Anyone who stumbles on your page will be able to hear us.”

Her insides did a funny wiggle. She liked that idea. A lot. She was so bad!

“O-Okay.”

He brushed her hair aside and kissed along her neck. “Mm hmm, they will be able to hear the moment I impregnate you.”

She swore her ovaries started railing against her insides like excited prisoners upon feeling the vibration of those words on her throat. The rest of her organs liquefied into a horny, insatiable goo. She was excited like she had never been. Just the thought of him ejaculating inside her caused her hormones to rampage. Her center pulsated with wetness, her nipples tingled and her skin kept flashing with heat.

“Yeah … yes, you need to fuck me right now, Sherlock.”

He made another guttural sound, retrieved one of his towels and threw it over the laptop’s camera. Then, he clicked through a couple pages and wheeled the chair in front of her desk. In the next instant, his hands were on her hips. He turned her around and rubbed his cock between her cheeks. His lips moved through her hair to speak in her ear.

“Tell our listeners what you want me to do to you, Molly.”

“Oh, shite,” she started out shyly, then found her voice, “I-I want you to fuck me over my desk, Sherlock Holmes. Fuck me hard. Ruin me.”

He chuckled. “With pleasure, Molly Hooper, with pleasure.”

A second later, Molly had one knee on her chair and her hands splayed out on her desk so she could lean over her computer. Sherlock positioned himself at her rear. Her hairs bristled up her spine and back of her neck as he rubbed the rounded head of his manhood at her entrance. She felt as if she were dripping, she was so needy for his fulfillment. Then, his rubbing became a push and an invasion. Once he was part way in and she felt the satisfying stretch of him, his hands slid up over her bum and his fingers curled around her hips.

“Sing for me, Molly,” he said gruffly and then thrust suddenly.

“Uuunh, aaah!”

His claim was was kind of explosively stunning. The back of the chair clacked into the desk and she had to press her fingers down to keep her from sliding forward as his hips slammed into her rear and pushed her cheeks apart. A low moan rolled from her lips. Being filled and possessed by his considerable size never failed to satisfy. Then, like a cycling piston, he began to move.

“Mm, oh, dear God, I can feel you, Sherlock. Oh … fff …”

They had been using condoms and that had always felt very smooth but this, this raw contact was something else. There was friction and and variations of his fleshy anatomy that viscerally reminded her how much more intimate was their contact. It wasn’t just a glide, but a glorious battle of give and take. Molly knew her needy whimpers filled the room. The small speaker on her laptop was probably crackling with sound.

“How does it feel, Molly?” Sherlock leaned down, his coarse stomach hairs tickled the valley between her cheeks.

“Good, Sherlock.”

He drove into her deliberately and grunted. She cried out.

“Unh, so good, so good, unh.”

He slammed again and again. Her chair and the desk beneath her hands creaked noisily with every thrust. She felt thoroughly savaged as her body jerked over and over with the power of his claim. It was addicting and thrilling and she imagined people leaning close to their computers and listening to their symphony with mouths agape. She hissed a little breath as she felt the first twinges of an impending orgasm at that thought.

“Oh, yes, Sherlock, fuck me. Fuck me, I’m close.”

He swore and his paced increased. The twinges that sparked like a stubborn lighter at her cleft grew more frequent. Any moment, her clit would ignite. She clenched around him, desperate to milk his flesh for her completion. A long, low rumbling groan poured from his lips.

“I want to hear it,” he groaned, “I want to hear you cum for me.”

That was it for Molly. Suddenly, she split apart like the bursting of a pipeline and a final twinge set it alight akin to a fire ball. The explosion sent a shock wave through her body that rippled and resounded as if it were reflecting off walls.

“Aaah, uuunnnh, yes, unh, yes. Let me have it,” she panted, “make me yours.”

She felt him jerk and shudder with a few, hammering strokes. Then, his fingers bit into her hips and he embedded himself in her womb. She heard his breaths quicken and then felt the strain of his member as it readied for release. A rough cry signaled his completion followed by the undulation of his flesh as it pushed out his seed. She squeezed her eyes shut. A second echo of an orgasm radiated inwards from between her legs. He had come inside her, there was no going back!

Sherlock pressed a hand to her belly and gathered her up against him. His hips bucked weakly as he emptied. Then, spent, his cock slipped out and she felt wetness slick her thighs. She turned her head and sought his lips. He kissed her between labored breaths.

“Enjoyed that, did you?” He murmured.

“Im-mensely,” she replied, her chest heaving.

“What about our wanking listeners?” He laughed against her lips.

She smiled. “I hope they hated every second of it.”


	26. Forever, Sherlolly Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has an epiphany. It leads him straight to Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unapologetic fluff.

  Sherlock’s muscles tightened across his shoulders. The word’s ‘shut’ and ‘up’ itched to jump from the tip of his tongue. He inhaled a long breath through his nostrils and let it out again in a silent huff. He tried to refocus on the body of the businessman in front of him, but once again, John’s voice cut through his thoughts from where he and Lestrade gabbed at his back.

    “That’s too bad about your wife, Greg,” he chirped, “wait, sorry - ex-wife, but it happens, yeah?”

     “Ah, right, I know but I just . . . I just always thought we’d get back together one day and this is kind of it, ain’t it? Like, they’re marrying. It can’t get more final than that," Greg replied.

     “Nothing is ever final, really, but I think you might be waiting around a long time for a chance with her again.”

     “Pfft, I waited long enough for her. Nope, it’s time I moved on.”

     Sherlock was about to tune them out again but the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. For some reason, he had a premonition about what John would say next.

     “Well, have you considered asking Molly out? She’s single again.”

     Sherlock’s neck stiffened. Suddenly every sound in the room amplified in his ears. At his back, Greg snorted.

     “Nah, Molly isn’t really for me.”

     John harrumphed. “What? Why? You don’t like her-?”

    “No! That’s not it.”

    The two men fell silent behind Sherlock for several moments. He could feel their eyes on the back of his head as he pretended to be oblivious to their conversation. His hands felt as if they were swimming in sweat inside the latex gloves. He flipped over the lapel of the body’s suit jacket and glowered at his shaking fingers. Molly and Greg. Their names repeated over and over inside his mind, obliterating every other thought process. Still, he feigned inspection of the dead man as he awaited Greg’s response.

    Finally, the inspector cleared his throat and sighed. The utterance that fell from his lips next seemed directed right at the hunched detective.

    “Bollocks . . . you know I would ask Molly out if I thought she’d be receptive, but she’s got a one track mind when it comes to matters of the heart.”

    Sherlock swallowed. He curled his fingers in and retracted them.

    _“One track mind,”_ the words echoed between his ears, _“one track mind, one track mind.”_

Sherlock rose from the floor. He peeled off his gloves and threw them into a nearby waste bag.

    _“One track mind.”_

“Oy,” Lestrade called, “you sorted that out already, Sherlock?”

    Sherlock turned to face his friends.

    _“One track mind.”_

“No,” he flipped up his collar and made to leave, “excuse me.”

         *   *   *

    “You . . . you are never going to stop caring for me, are you?”

    Molly nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard the deep voice of Sherlock at her back. Her hand slapped to her chest. She wheezed a couple of breaths and then turned slowly. Sherlock stood near the entry of the lab, his usual gorgeous self in his long Belstaff and perfectly coiffed curls. His green-blue eyes regarded her with a wrinkle of concentration between them.

    “Wh-What?” She whispered.

    Sherlock strode forward slowly yet purposefully. His footsteps were so carefully placed she could not hear his footfalls across the floor.

    “You,” he rejoined pointedly, “you will . . . always love me, won’t you?”

     Molly gulped down a breath. “What? What do you mean? Of course I will, Sherlock. You are my friend-”

    His head shook once. Molly stepped back nervously as she found herself in his imposing shadow. They were in the middle of the open floor of the lab, yet she felt hemmed in. What was he on about, she wondered? Did he need something? Was she going to be asked to help him again? She recoiled into herself. Her help was only ever needed when he was in grave danger which meant she was in for some grievous heart pain. He seemed to notice her reticence and frowned.

    “No,” he muttered, “I mean, you will never cease to have a romantic attachment to me. Ever.”

    Her face flushed with heat. She struggled to maintain control of her expression. It had been years since he had deduced her crush on him but they had never outright discussed it. In fact, since that fateful Christmas party, she had tried her best to behave as a friend would behave. It was mortifying to discover that he still thought she was enamored with him, even if it was one-hundred percent true.

     “Sh-Sherlock,” her tongue felt two sizes too large in her mouth, “I-I . . . oh . . . y-you, arse!”

    Molly covered her flaming face and turned away. She gulped a lump. Large fingers grasped her elbow and she was urged around to face him again. For a moment, his eyes scanned her face. Then, his hands fell on her shoulders as lightly as the settling of feathers. They jittered there a short interlude before coming together at the side of her neck and up to her jaw. His eyes constricted ever so slightly. The machinations of his thoughts were almost audible. She half-expected to hear the shrieking of metal gears grinding like train wheels over tracks. Unexpectedly, he leaned forward, then lurched to a stop.

    Her eyes went very round. Was he going to-

    He shifted forward again until his lips hovered just above hers.

    She started vibrating. Sherlock Holmes was preparing to kiss her!

   “Sher-”

    Lips fumbled onto hers with a great intake of breath. For a brief period of time, they slanted over her mouth slightly stiff and unyielding until she expelled a sigh against his mouth and kissed him back with a shy tremble. He reacted to that as if he were a block of butter in the microwave that finally reached its melting threshold. He groaned. Then, supple, pliant lips spread, pulled and cajoled her own as if he were drawing out her very soul. Almost too quickly, it was over, though. His face pulled from hers with an almost imperceptible smack of their lips and his head drifted back. Ragged breaths fanned her face.

     Sherlock gazed down at her for a spell, his eyes seemed to absorb every detail of her face. His thoughts appeared to be going a mile a minute. She could tell by the fine lines that crinkled at the corner of his eyes that he was working something out. His fingers quivered on her face. Molly reached between the halves of his coat and found that his entire body was shaking.

    “Wh-What’s wrong?”

    He cleared his throat. “Molly, I was supposed to be alone forever.”

     She held him tightly. “Oh, Sherlock . . .”

     His thumbs stroked her jaw. “But my forever is not alone. In every scenario, in every instance, and in every possible future I envision your love is its companion.”

     Tears stung Molly’s eyes. She squeezed him. She sniffled. Sherlock kissed her forehead, her brow and down over her cheek.

    “I asked you if you would love me forever,” he murmured, “forgive me, I already knew the answer because I finally recognized the feeling within myself.”

    Her lips parted in surprise. “You . . . ?”

    Sherlock kissed her again on her slightly open mouth. “I love you. Molly Hooper, I will love you until all that is left of me is but flakes of skin floating around Baker Street. M-My forever is yours, if you’ll have it, ahem, have me.”

    Molly quivered for a few seconds, then launched herself up and hugged him for all she was worth.

    “Oh, Hell, yes,” she gasped, “and you can have me. I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I love you, I love you, I love you. Always, always.”

    Strong arms clutched her to his form. “Sorry I took so long to come around.”

    Molly laughed giddily. “I would have waited-”

     “Forever,” he chuckled, “this we have established.”

     “Don’t be an-oop!”

      Molly couldn’t finish her thoughts as his lips swooped down. Sherlock had time to make up.


	27. Disruption, A Sherlolly Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An autumn/Remembrance day themed Sherlolly tribute. Angst and fluffy feels abound.

    Sherlock flipped up his collar against the sudden gust of wind that whipped through the lonely cemetery and leaned back against the tall oak that he had been hiding behind. Above him, the last of its withered, discoloured leaves clung to the highest branches. As if angered by their resistance, the wind redoubled its efforts and stripped a few more of them away. He inhaled a lungful of the chilly air and peaked around the oak’s girthy trunk again.

    Molly had not moved from in front of the grave she visited. Her face was stark and pale save for the wind-burned pink of her cheeks. Long tendrils of her hair whipped her face as if desperate to escape her ponytail. Still, she remained in place; a slight, stoic figure clutching a poppy in her right hand as if she could not bring herself to part with it. He frowned and silently cursed the unwritten rules that dictated he leave her alone with her grief in her insubstantial black skirt and tights covered only by a thin, black trench.

    Then, as if angered by its failure to defrock the trees, the wind renewed its efforts. This time, it seemed that the howling banshee wanted her poppy. Oblivious to the storm’s intent, Molly was taken by surprise when the little red adornment was claimed by a lusty whoosh of air.

    “Bugger!” She grabbed for it as it twirled towards the ground.

    The poppy stuck to the ground only for a tick and started tumbling away. Then, it was picked up and hurled towards where Sherlock concealed himself. With a curse, he stepped out from behind the tree and plucked it from the air just as it flew by. The wind wailed and buffeted him, throwing open his jacket with a blasting frustration. He caught his scarf before it could be torn away and looped it an extra time around his next.

    “Sh-Sherlock?” Molly gaped at him.

    He heaved a great sigh and brought his arm down to return her poppy. She stumbled forward with her skirt plastered to her leg. As she approached, he could see her lips were purple. Almost the moment she took the poppy, he shrugged out of his Belstaff and flipped it around to drape it over her shoulders. Bitter wind drove punishingly through his thin shirt and trousers. She protested but he jerked her forwards by its lapels and secured several of the buttons.

    “Wh-What a-are y-y-you doing i-in Swansea?” her teeth chattered.

    “That is a rather silly question,” he remarked gruffly as he flipped up the collar to protect her neck, “it’s three and a half hours by train to travel here, not something I would do on a lark. I followed you.”

    Her nose wrinkled. “Yeah, I-ah-figured that part, Sherlock Holmes. Wh-Why?”

    He reluctantly let go of his jacket and crossed his arms. For a moment he was mesmerized by her wide brown eyes and the way her lip quivered.

    “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

    Her dainty brows drew together and her lips parted in confusion.

    “That … that doesn’t make sense. You weren’t planning to reveal yourself, were you? You would have just followed me all the way back home to London without ever telling me you had come …”

    His brow twitched. “Correct.”

    Molly huffed in exasperation. “Well, that hardly makes you a companion then, does it?”

    Sherlock curled his fingers into his palms. His throat constricted.  

    “I-I am sorry, Molly,” he murmured, “I thought it best if I didn’t interfere. I mean, this … this is your grief, not mine. I only wanted to be here in case … I am not sure … in case …”

    Her brows perked up. “In case I needed you to catch my poppy or something?”

    His face flushed. The sudden heat made his face sting.

    “Yes. No. Damn, would you like me to leave? What would you have me do?”

    Molly squinted critically at him. Then she wrestled her arms out the sleeves of his coat. A slender hand reached for his.

    “Come meet my father,” she said simply.

    Sherlock unfolded his arms and enveloped her small hand in his own. Instead of a simple clasp, he tucked her arm under his and then drew her close to his side. He had never had her so near before and certainly never held her this way. His heart thudded in his chest and suddenly the blood pounding in his ears was louder than the wind.

    At her father’s tombstone, decorated with the Insignia of the Welsh Guard, Sherlock listened to Molly’s gentle recount of her father’s time in service, his participation in the Falklands War and how he was haunted by the death of his companions in the attack on the _RFA Sir Galahad_. It was a history Sherlock knew very well, though Molly would be unaware of his research into her family history. However, her description and the way history rippled through her voice viscerally reminded her of the legacy such wounds can leave, even on the survivor’s loved ones. He felt a deep pang in his heart for Molly and her father and the loneliness that at first had been a soldier’s and subsequently was born by his daughter.

    Later, on the train on the way back to London, Sherlock found himself ruminating about the day’s events and what he had experienced. There was no fixing it. He could never fix it, he lamented. Yet, as Molly shrugged out of his jacket, he was struck with a realization. He had always been afraid of Molly and of her needs and that is why he compartmentalized her into a space he avoided. He had always been afraid that he could not be the fixer she needed, but that chilly morning had been a revelation. For, she hadn’t needed fixing. She had only needed someone to share in her memories and when they had eventually left, the Molly who had been burdened with sorrow had walked away with a light bounce in her step.

    Molly didn’t want fixing, he mused. She didn’t need it. What Molly needed was disruption.

    Sherlock grabbed her hand before she could take the opposite seat on the train and pulled her down next to him. Her eyes rounded in surprise as she stared up at him.

     "What … is this?“ She breathed.

     Sherlock squeezed her hand and took an opportunity to download every facet of her beautiful face into his long term memory banks. 

     "Disruption.”


	28. Avast! A Sherlolly Kid!lock Pirate Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Sherlock meet as kids on the playground and bond over a love of Pirates.

  “Avast!”

    Eight-year-old Molly Hooper spun to face her attacker. Her pirate hat slipped over her eyes. She pushed it back to see a boy a little older than her dressed in all black with a shaggy black mass of faux whiskers hanging from his face. A couple of quick steps brought him from the footbridge to where she defended the upper platform of the central playground structure.

    “I said, ‘AVAST’!”

     Molly shakily lifted her wooden sword. She had never met another child dressed as a pirate before. The boy grinned and struck into an elegant quarte stance with one hand back beside his head. His plastic foil, its end blunted by a ball, was held at a slight angle to his torso. She rubbed her lips together and tried to counter his pose.

    His nose wrinkled and his pale sea-blue eyes narrowed. He was an unusual looking boy. His eyes were quite slanted, he had a long, lean face and lips that looked like they had been painted on like her favorite doll. Wild, dark curls poked out from beneath his black leather pirate’s hat. The boy flicked his foil and jabbed gently at her a couple times. Molly whacked her heavy sabre one way and the other. However, he was much too quick and deflected her thrusts with ease. The ball-end of his weapon poked her shoulder in a victorious jab.

    “How do you expect to defend your ship with such weak skills, Pirate?” he scoffed.

   Molly pursed her lips. Her face went warm. She pushed up the sleeves of her dad’s over-sized shirt and raised her blade again. Again, he breached her defenses and tapped each of her shoulders. She growled and waved her sword around.

    “I-I am not weak, Black Beard!”

    The boy stood up straight. He dropped the tip of his foil to the floor.

    “I never said you were weak, Pirate. I said your skills are weak. Who are you supposed to be anyway?”

     Molly lifted her chin. “I am _’Back from the dead Red’_ , but I bet you don’t know her.”

    “You mean Jacquotte Delahaye? The female pirate whose mother died in childbirth? The one who took care of her disabled brother when her father died and faked her own death only to rise again, thus earning her the moniker you mentioned? I know you well then, _‘Red’_ , but you need more than your fearsome reputation to advance your pirate career. You need an education.”

    Molly grinned. He was a boy a little too in love with himself, but she liked him. He was nice. He didn’t laugh at her like the others.

    “Let’s do this, Black Beard!”

    So, the boy showed Molly a few moves, taught her how to keep her weight on her back foot, and in short order, they were dueling (albeit, with some restraint on his part). Across the park, a widower and a well-to-do couple marveled at the sight of their socially reticent children playing together.

    “I cannot believe it. I simply cannot believe it. He has never engaged with another child this way,” Mrs. Holmes wiped a tear from her eye, “your daughter must be very special.”

    Mr. Hooper nodded. “Molly never finds fault with anyone or anything. She is a very old soul and wise … and determined. She already knows that she wants to be a doctor.”

    Mr. Holmes smiled. “That’s lovely. Keep encouraging her, she will make an excellent physician one day.”

    Mr. Hooper shrugged. “Ah, yes, I will, of course. Hopefully she can keep up her marks and get herself a scholarship.”

    The Holmes exchanged glances. Mr. Holmes’ face flushed at the realization such an education might be unaffordable for the working-class man and his daughter in her borrowed pirate garb. Mrs. Holmes’ lips set in a determined line at that very moment. One way or the other, little Miss Pirate Hooper was going to be a fixture in her son’s life and she would ensure that when the time came, the girl had a chance to pursue her dreams.

    “Sir, do you come to this park often?” she asked.

    Mr. Hooper smiled. “Every Sunday.”

    “Would you mind very much if we brought Sherlock here again to play with Molly?”

    He chuckled. “Not at all, but I will warn you, once Molly decides he’s her friend, he’s stuck with her for life. She ‘keeps’ people.”

    Mrs. Holmes smirked. “Excellent.”


	29. 12 Tweets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by promo material from S4 of Sherlock and of course, Christmas!

_Mary reads Molly's twitter feed which has been active these recent nights . . ._

_“@bartsbeauty Daedalus has pushed Perdix from the cliffs. Now it is your problem.”_

_“@bartsbeauty these were sacred to Demeter. Let us hope she is not angered I took a pair.”_

_“@bartsbeauty I expect excellent production from the Faverolles.”_

_“@bartsbeauty these can be baked in a pie, and come in quantities of twenty as well.”_

_“@bartsbeauty sizes 4.5? 6? 7? 7? 9? Please advise.”_

_“@bartsbeauty I went with the Canadian version. A warning, they can be aggressive.”_

_“@bartsbeauty it certainly is a ridiculous amount of water fowl but these are the last of them.”_

_“@bartsbeauty as far as I know, you are not lactose intolerant? Again, please advise.”_

_“@bartsbeauty the best show starts after ten pm, or so John says.”_

_“@bartsbeauty Mycroft tells me a small bribe for each will affect the requisite response.”_

_“@bartsbeauty I went with the cake decorating kind.The others were dreadfully noisy.”_

_“@bartsbeauty I have always been said to march to the beat of my own.”_

    Mary looked up from Molly’s phone. Her laughter peeled throughout the lab.

   “What? What is it? Is he back on drugs?” Molly asked.

   “Oh, my, you have no clue, do you?”

    Molly’s brows pinched. She took back her phone.

   “I just assumed he is back on drugs. I mean, these tweets make no sense at all-”

   “Molly, how many tweets have there been?”

    Molly counted them. “T-Twelve.”

    “One for each day, I imagine?”

    “Y-Yes.”

     “Twelve days … twelve tweets …”

     Molly’s face warmed. Suddenly, she knew very well what he had done.

    “Oh! Oh, lord, he has been pulling my leg! Why would he do that?”

    “Oh, I imagine he thought he was being clever or perhaps, he is a bit reluctant to come right out and finally admit it. You know Sherlock and feelings, he is not the best at expressing them.”

     Molly swallowed. “Feelings? Wh-What are you talking about?”

     Mary raised her brows. “Erm, I would think that part is rather obvious. I mean, with the song and all. Twelve days, twelve gifts, all for a particular recipient …”

      Molly’s eyes rounded. “No! No, he doesn’t mean that!”

     Next thing she knew, Mary snatched Molly’s phone and began to tap into it wildly.

     “What are you doing?”

      Mary laughed and handed the phone back to Molly. Molly’s mouth fell open when she saw what Mary had tweeted from her account.

_“@thehatdetective many thanks for the gifts. Am I really your true love?”_

    “Mary!!!”

    A few seconds later Molly’s phone chimed. She gaped at the reply on her feed.

  _“@bartsbeauty in a word, yes. See you tonight, Molly Hooper.”_


	30. Leave a Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs Molly to change her voicemail. 
> 
> Consider this a missing scene that they should have included in the S4 finale, The Final Problem. :)

“Hello! This is Molly, I’m dying to hear back from you! Leave a message.”

Molly looked over at Sherlock and wagged her brows.

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled. “Nooo … _not_ better. Do it again.”

Molly shrugged and tapped her phone a couple times. 

_“Please record your message,”_ an electronic voice instructed.

She took a breath. “Hello, this is Molly. I’m six-feet under a pile of paperwork right now. Talk to you soon.”

When she glanced over, the consulting detective cricked his neck. His expression was positively dark.

“Molly-”

She rolled her eyes. Once more, she recorded a message.

“You’ve reached Molly, sorry to have missed you. I’ll get back to you, of corpse!”

She couldn’t help but giggle at her joke but suddenly, her phone was snatched from her hands. She clucked her tongue.

“Sherlock …”

Her words faltered. Sherlock stared down at the mobile in his hands. That’s when she noticed his fingers were shaking. He gently turned it off, flipped it over and put it down before hunching over her counter. She felt a wrinkle form between her brow. 

“Sh-Sherlock?”

What a week it had been. Of course, she had been using her humor to distract herself from the mind-altering phone call he’d made only days previous. She had half convinced herself it was a hallucination or just another incident of Sherlock high off his gourd. When he hadn’t called her back, she assumed the worst and that the three-little-words she had heard from him weren’t as authentic as she hoped.

Molly whispered his name again but he didn’t respond. She swallowed. He had thrown her off-guard showing up at her house and demanding she change her voicemail message. She did not know why she humored him, except that maybe she was terrified to ask what his phone call had really been about.

Finally, Sherlock pushed away from the counter. “W-Would you change your message for me, please? No death puns, I beg you.”

_“Oh, Lord,”_ Molly thought.

He had tears in his eyes. His face was flushed. He looked on the verge of a breakdown.

“I-I don’t understand,” she whispered, “I have had that message forever-”

“I thought you were going to die.”

Molly frowned. “Wh-What?’

He inhaled deeply. “The other day when I called you, I thought you were going to die.”

Her breath froze in her chest. “I-Is …i-is that why you lied to me-?”

Sherlock shook his head and closed in on her space. His eyes flashed and went round.

“I didn’t lie. It was true. It’s always been … true. Molly Hooper, I love you. Now, for the love of god, record something non-death related or I will lose my mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over her face as she stood there in shock. Her eyes stung. Her lips felt numb.

“Y-Y-You,” she panted, tears ran down her cheeks, “y-you bastard.”

Sherlock drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her head. “I know. Will you change it then? For me? For my sanity?”

Molly shook in his arms. “Of course, Sherlock Holmes, oh, you bloody git. I love you too. Of course I will.”


	31. The client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some smut based on this Molly look-a-like picture. Warning for pictorial nsfw!!!!

 

 

 

Warning, there is a nsfw picture of a girl in lingerie below!!!! Story follows :)

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   At her back, Molly heard the creak of the door and felt a whoosh of cool air over her skin as it slammed shut. Leather soles slapped against the wooden planks of the converted studio flat and then slowed and stopped. Goosebumps washed over her skin in waves, both from the prickle of the chilly draft and the knowledge of whose eyes were upon her nearly naked form. 

     Silence ensued. She bit her lip to stop a grin from spreading over her face. She had hoped to elicit this reaction - a stunned vacuum of sound. Without turning around, she arched her back and squared her shoulders before running her hands up the back of her neck. She gathered her hair up on her head and let out a breathy sigh.

     Molly’s visitor did not move which to her was a very good sign. Emboldened, she bent forward from her small ottoman and then began to rise, arse first. The lace of her black thong threaded tightly between her cheeks and over her cleft, the garter belt at her waist stretched and its loose suspenders swished against her thighs. She paused mid-rise with her derriere at its most prominent and stroked her hands up one leg over her silky stocking. She tugged it and secured it in place at the front and back, the rear suspender strained in the most satisfying way over her posterior. Then she repeated the process with her other leg. All the while, her voyeur remained quiet. She was achingly aroused. Knowing he had watched her every movement without interruption made her sex infuse with heat and moisture. 

     Finally, Molly stood up. She wasn’t always the most confident, but that day she knew she looked her best. Her matching black lace lingerie and stockings fit perfectly and left nothing to the imagination except the most decadent of sin. Even so, when the time came to face her intended conquest, she had to take several breaths to steady her nerves. She had summoned him to this borrowed flat under false pretenses by baiting him with a riddle she knew only he could solve. He had expected a case. What he didn’t know was that he was actually the client. 

     Slowly Molly turned to face her spectator. Across the sparse expanse of the nearly empty flat, Sherlock Holmes appeared very still, almost like a statue dressed in his infamous Belstaff and a slim-fitting suit with a sapphire-blue shirt. His chin was angled down slightly, just dipping past the upturned collar of his coat. She lifted her eyes and was struck by the intensity she saw within their depths.

     She had expected him to be buffering. Instead, his lips were parted and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. His eyelid twitched as the moment drew out. Then. he stretched his neck without breaking eye contact. For a few seconds, she wanted to dart for the studio’s only bathroom but then his eyes flicked down her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts, the plane of her tummy and the length of her legs. Molly gathered her courage and crossed the room. It was the most difficult ten steps she ever took. By the time she stood under his nose, her insides were a scrambled mess. Somehow, she found her voice.

     “Y-You’ve deduced this already, haven’t you, Sherlock? Deduced why you are here?”

     He hesitated. His eyes narrowed and then he nodded haltingly. She felt a hot breath fan her face from his flared nostrils.

     “Well then, Mr. Holmes, will you take my case? Will you help me solve the mystery?”

     His eyebrow crooked up. “Is it a mystery?”

     Molly’s stomach flip-flopped. “It is to me. You said those words, you confessed, but I still don’t know what it means for you to love me. A-Am I your friend or something more-?”

     His eyes narrowed as he nearly turned her inside out with his gaze. Time stood still. She thought she had aged a thousand years by the time he spoke.

     “Shall I enlighten you?” his deep tone reverberated through her body.

     “P-Please,” she whispered, her tummy fluttered.

     In the next instant, Sherlock’s Belstaff and blazer hit the floor. Molly just felt a puff of air at her feet when hands gripped her thighs and hoisted her up. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around Sherlock’s waist and anchored her arms on his neck. Their eyes met briefly, his pupils were large and impossibly dark. Then, his head fell forward. Fireworks exploded in her abdomen when his supple lips slammed over hers as if a dam had just broken within him and he could not contain its surge. An excited squeak escaped her and she kissed him back just as enthusiastically.

      _Oh, God,”_ she thought, “ _Sherlock Holmes has his hands on my bare arse and he’s kissing me. Oh, dear lord!”_

He shifted, bouncing her in his arms, and then he walked them to the studio’s only bed. In his haste, he practically threw her down before ripping open his shirt, divesting himself of it and dropping his pants to the floor in a puddle. She just had time to register the shock of seeing his lovely, lean muscled form naked and more than a little aroused before he pinned her to the bed. He kissed her again but his hands did not remain idle. She felt the frantic snaps of her suspenders flying apart in between heady kisses and gasps.

     “Unh, Sherlock!” she panted as she felt his erection slide along her belly. “Oh, my word … am I dreaming … i-is this real?”

      “Very much so,” he grunted, “and it is going to be very real in a moment. Forgive me … forgive me for my impatience.”

     Molly inhaled a shuddering breath when his fingers found the edge of her panties and pulled them down. She lifted her bum and felt the gentle abrasion of the lace slide over her rear. Eager to feel as much of him as possible, she sat up partially and unclasped her bra. In a frenetic heartbeat, her bra joined her panties on the floor and all that was left of her ensemble was her disconnected garter and stockings. 

     Sherlock’s eyes greedily took in the sight of her body. He heaved in a great lungful of air and a tremble vibrated his frame.

     “You are … you are more beautiful that I ever imagined, Molly,” he murmured.

     Molly swallowed. She almost wanted to cry.

     “S-So, you did imagine me _like this_?”

     He dipped his chin as a pained frown gripped his features. Several curls fell over his brow. He rapidly scanned her expression in disbelief.

     “Countless times, Molly Hooper, countless times.”

     Before a tear could squeeze out, Sherlock kissed her again. When she was thoroughly breathless, he lifted his hand and licked his fingers generously. She moaned and let her head drop back as slick fingers rubbed over her cleft. Then he paused.

      “Damn, Molly, we actually cannot do this. I-I don’t have any protection.”

      Between huffs Molly reached back under the bed’s lone pillow and whipped out a rubber. Her face warmed as she wagged it beneath his nose.

     “Thank god I’m an optimist, humm?”

      Sherlock chuckled and gingerly took the little package. He sat up on his knees. Molly closed her eyes as she heard the rip and the sound of him rolling the latex over his cock. Her toes curled on the bed. She chewed her lip. She was still in total shock, she would probably be forever stunned that he had kissed her let alone what they were about to do.

     A second later, his heavy weight settled between her knees, his hand ran down her thigh and hiked her leg up. Again, he wetted his fingers to ready her for his entry. He needn’t bother, she was more than half-way there at the thought of his possession. 

     “Hmmnn, Molly, Christ, you are shaking. Are you okay?”

     She nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes, please, I am just … anxious for you.”

     Sherlock ran a finger through her folds. The rub of something bolder and larger replaced his digit. She trembled from head to toe. She felt like she was in some sort of weirdly visceral dream. It couldn’t be happening, it couldn’t, but then it was. She felt the first push of him seeking entry and held her breath.

     “Are you ready?” he asked hoarsely. “I am sorry to rush-”

     “Please! Rush! Rush, already!”

     Sherlock sucked in a breath and settled onto his elbows. Their tummies pressed together and her breast flattened under his chest. His stiff claim moved forward, expanding and filling her. He was larger than anyone she’d had before and the feeling of stretching around him was consuming and intense. Just as he seated himself into her, she felt the rolled edge of the condom slip past her folds and was struck by the moment. The man she had pined for and loved all these years was hard as steel and buried in her body up to his sack.

     “Oh, my god,” she moaned, “oh, my god, Sherlock.”

     “Yes, Molly, hu-uh, damn, you feel so good. So good.”

     With a groan, he kissed her and then kissed her neck. She held tight to his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his back. Soon, his hips bucked and began to thrust. Over and over, he stroked in and out until her arousal eased his glide. His breaths pulsed along her neck, hot and ragged. She knew by the tension in his body and the way his pace increased with every return that their joining would not last long. So, she closed her eyes and just allowed herself to revel in the feel of him. The slick friction and pressure of his rigid flesh brought her quickly to an aching point. In fact, she would not have thought it possible, but she downright throbbed between her legs in record time.

     “Molly,” he groaned, “Molly. Damn, it has been too long. I am going to come, I cannot stave it off-”

     “Don’t,” she whispered, she was so excited by his pleasure, “unh, don’t resist it.”

      “Molly!”

      “Come for me, Sherlock. I am there too, please, I need it …”

      The vortex between her legs spun out of control then and a spasm made her grip his shaft tightly. Sherlock swore and thrust hard before a shudder wracked his body. Once, twice, three times she felt the darting of something along his length and realized he was coming. She cried out as another spasm and then multiple pulses within her milked his emptying flesh. Joyous tears slipped from her eyes down her cheeks. She had never felt so fulfilled in her life.

     They laid there for some time intertwined. Sherlock kept pulling absentmindedly on one of her suspenders as he recovered his airway against the side of her throat.

     “Did I clear things up for you?” he rasped after a few minutes. “Is the mystery of my regard dispelled? I like to leave my clients satisfied.”

      Molly stroked the soft hairs at his nape and kissed his cheek. “I am definitely satisfied-”

     He lifted his head with a huff. “Let me put this mystery of yours 100% to rest right here and now, Molly Hooper. I love you. What I said on the phone the other week was absolutely true. I meant it. I. Love. You.”

     Molly’s nose wrinkled. She coughed a laugh and then a cry and then hugged him as hard as she could. Then she started sobbing.

     “Don’t cry, my love,” he soothed her, “don’t cry. I am sorry for everything. How can I make it up to you?”

     “Give me a sec, Sherlock,” she whispered, “I will calm down in a moment and then …”

      “Then?” he asked gruffly.

      She sniffled. “Then, I will want you to prove it to me again.”


	32. Sort of an Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly find out that Sherlock has kind of a kink. Will she entertain it? 
> 
> SMUT WARNING. Also, warning for spanking, mild pain. Skip if squeamish.

     Molly was never going to get to sleep at this rate. She turned over and yanked the cord on her lamp. When she turned back, Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open to stare at the ceiling.

    “What the hell is going on?” Molly growled.

    Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose. “Can’t sleep.”

    She sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Um, yeah, I sorted that out by the twitching. Why?”

    He glanced at her quickly out of the corner of his eyes and looked up again. He shrugged.

   “Nothing. Everything. Sometimes I revisit old cases and they keep me up. You remember that experiment I did on that corpse? I am still not happy with the results. I am starting to think a whip wasn’t the right implement to duplicate the injuries I suspected on the original murder victim. The whip bruises were too dark, too precise. They were not a good match.”

    Molly groaned and flopped back. “Oh, God, really, Sherlock? That is what, like seven years old? Aarg, I have a lot to do tomorrow.”

    He bounced the bed as he flipped to his side. “It was a hand. Fingers. Had to be!”

   She sighed and tried to recall the case. Then she remembered the strange bruises on the posterior of a dead businessman and how Sherlock had experimented time and again with different BDSM whips to replicate the injuries on a donated cadaver. She rubbed her lips together as she recalled the ferocity of how he had gone at the corpse. It had been one of the first moments she had found the eccentric Sherlock Holmes attractive in his sweaty, disheveled state. It was that exact moment when she had understood his passion and the emotional man she knew he could be.

    She stretched out. She would work herself up if she kept reminiscing.

    “Sherlock-”

    When she looked over at him again, he stared back at her. “Fingers, Molly.”

    Her mind was momentarily blank as she took in his rumpled curls and plump lips. “What about fingers now?”

    “Someone slapped Clive Silverton before his death, hard.”

    Molly shook the fog of lust from her mind and frowned. “No! There are no way fingers could have left those kinds of marks.”

    Sherlock appeared unimpressed. “Why?”

    She inhaled a deep breath and whipped out her fingers. “Because the bruises were thin! It would have to have been someone with small hands like myself and there is no way I could slap a man of Mr. Silverton’s size with enough strength to inflict that colour!”

     For a few seconds, he squinted as he thought about her assessment and then yanked off the covers and flipped on his stomach. He wiggled his bare bum.

     “Wh-What are you doing?” Molly asked as she scrambled to her knees.

     “Conducting an experiment. By morning, bruises should form and we can put this argument to rest. Slap me.”

     Her chin went back. “No!”

    He turned his head and smoothed back his hair. “Come on, Molly. I want you to give it a go.”

    She swallowed and gripped her own thighs. “But I might hurt you!”

    He smirked. “That is kind of the point.”

    “Sherlock!”

    He pushed up on an elbow. His expression relaxed. His eyes flitted seductively over her face.

    “Would it help if I told you I _like_ that sort of thing?”

    Her lips parted. “Y-You do?”

    He nodded, carefully gauging her reaction. “Pain is a stimulant for me, Molly. It causes my blood to surge. It is even more enjoyable to have it inflicted on me by someone else, especially someone I trust.”

    She wrung her hands. “I cannot believe I am entertaining this-”

    “Excellent, shall we?” he dropped to his stomach again and gripped the crossbars of their bed.

    Molly gaped dumbfounded at Sherlock stretched out. His back was slightly arched and his legs splayed. His muscles across the broad expanse of his back rippled as he strengthened his grip on the rails.

     “I’m waiting.”

     “I-I’m thinking!”

     “Don’t think, just spank me.”

     “Sherlock-”

     He peered sideways over his muscular arm. “Do you not have the nerve, Molly?”

     “Oh!”

     Next think she knew, Molly raised her hand. Still, she couldn’t quite commit. Her slap turned into a feeble tap.

     Sherlock huffed. “What was that? Was there a mosquito on my arse? I am fairly certain that wasn’t even hard enough to render him flightless.”

      “Male mosquitos don’t sting!” She countered.

     Sherlock hiked a brow. “Neither do female ones, apparently.”

     “Eeerg!” Molly gave him a harder swat, this time it made a satisfying crack of a sound and her fingers stung.

     “Mmph, god yes,” Sherlock uttered, his hips ground down.

      She watched in fascination as his butt flexed and he rubbed himself against the bed. A quiver coursed through her belly. He really liked it. She could see in the tense length of his body that he was aroused. That, in turn, caused her sex to pulse to life. Warmth flushed between her thighs.

      He glanced at Molly. “You okay?”

      She inhaled a sharp breath. “Me?”

     He nodded. “Yes, you. You don’t have to do this if you don’t want, Molly. It’s no fun if you’re not okay with it.”

     Molly licked her lips. Her eyes caressed his gorgeous, lean frame and lingered on the faint pink stain she’d left on his cheek.

     “Can I try again?” she asked softly.

     “Oh, hell yes,” he agreed hoarsely.

     She scooted to the other side of him and leaned over so her long hair could tickle his back. He lifted his butt slightly.  She kissed it quickly and then wound up and smacked him again on that very spot, making sure to whip her fingers in the process. The sound clapped off their bedroom walls. It’s echo made her core sting.

     “Huh!” his shoulder bunched as he jerked. “More.”

     Molly spanked him again and again, each spank was even more satisfying. His heavy panting turned into deep moans of satisfaction. His hips kept bucking against the bed. She spanked him until both cheeks were bright pink and her palm prickled with pins and needles. He was almost animalistic in his furious grinding on the bed. She longed to be underneath him.

     “Unh, unh, uuuunh,” he moaned, “unh, Molly, unh, it feels so good.”

     Molly couldn’t resist leaning down and nibbling on a bit of his swollen flesh. He cursed and next thing she knew, she was underneath him, just as she wished. Sherlock kissed her feverishly and rubbed his painfully engorged cock on her belly. A hand reached between her legs.

     “Oh, hell, Molly. You’re so wet. You liked punishing me, didn’t you?”

     “Fuck, Sherlock, if I knew you’d react like that, I would have bent you over my knee a long time ago.”

     He groaned. “God, I love you.”

     Sherlock’s hand stroked up the back of her thighs and pushed her legs up and apart. Then he guided his blunt head to her folds. Molly’s hand snaked around his waist to his rear. Just as he gripped the rails above her head and began to sink into her, she slapped his arse.

     “Mmph!” his hips surged forward and he staked her to the bed. “Oh, Christ!”

     Molly moaned. His thick cock strained within her body. His balls pressed against her crack. He was harder than she’d ever felt him, like lightning had struck and turned sand to glass beneath his flesh.

     “God, fuck me, Sherlock!”

     He obliged. His shaft plummeted in and out of her body at a breakneck pace. She kept spanking him as best she could on each cheek until he was grunting and bucking into her like an out of control stallion. It was so exciting, so different, so wildly out of control that she was near a breaking point in record time. Her juncture was so wet and aching that she could barely discern whether he was stroking in or out at any given moment. It was only when he pinned her down, his cock slammed deep in her chamber and met resistance when she ascertained where he was.

      “Oh, fuck, I am going to cum,” she cried at one point, “I’m going to cum. Fffffuuuuck.”

      Her orgasm, which had been sparking like a lighter, erupted and flashed like a firebomb. She landed one final spank on Sherlock’s arse and his whole body shuddered.

     “Molly, uuuuuunnnnhhh, Molly!”

     He arched into her, driving her upwards on the bed as his cock thundered its release. As her womb contracted with each pulse of her orgasm, his fluids rippled through his length and into her body. She felt the twitching flesh low on her entry and squeezed him. Another wave of pleasure flooded her insides.

     “Oh, fuck, that was so hot,” she whispered, her body still vibrated. “Jesus, Sherlock, I don’t think I’ve ever cum that hard.”

     “Yes, agreed.”

      Molly’s hands left his bum, stroked up his back and she plunged her fingers into his hair. She kissed his cheeks and forehead and then his mouth. He kissed her back between pants. Finally, he sank down onto her and buried his face in her neck.

     “Mm, my love, that was spectacular.”

     “Yup,” she breathed, “yeah, it was.”

     He kissed her neck. “I think I can probably sleep now.”

     Molly laughed. “On that sore butt? Good luck.”

     He chuckled and hugged her. “On my stomach then, dreaming sweet dreams of my naughty wife.”

    She massaged his scalp. “Mm, sounds like heaven.”

    He raised up and kissed her brow. “It is, and you’re my wrathful angel. I love you.”

    “I love you too, Sherlock.”

   


	33. That First Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A S4 missing scene set just after Sherlock and John and Molly meet for his birthday. Molly sees Sherlock back to his flat to give him a birthday gift.

   A thousand deductions tumbled through Sherlock's mind as he ruminated over the small gift-bag Molly had given him only moments ago. He shifted in his chair at Baker street, fully cognisant of her gaze as she stood over him. He had never received another carefully wrapped gift from Molly after that fateful Christmas when he had insulted her efforts at wooing who turned out to be _him_. Molly had gone out of her way to avoid any overt displays of interest since then, in fact. It had gotten to the point he questioned if she harbored any romantic affections for him anymore. The slap-dash appearance of the gift-bag on its surface suggested this as well; that is, until one looked a little closer. The tissue wrap had little creases in it and a smudge from worrying over its appearance. The bag and tissue were obnoxiously disparate in their appearance; the bag was printed with a blue plaid while the tissue was a garish orange and yellow polka-dot theme. He fingered the attached tag to reveal its message. 

    _"Happy Birthday, Sherlock. Cheers, Molly."_  

    The uppercase 'C' in cheers was written with a bit of hesitation as if someone questioned the appropriateness of that particular sign-off. A tide of relief stole over him. _Carelessness_. Everything about the package attempted to speak of _carelessness_ to him but he saw through its pretension.     

     "This was unnecessary," Sherlock murmured as he looked up from the bag to Molly, "but thank-you."      

     She shrugged and brushed a hair from her forehead. "It's nothing really, but I thought you might need it."      

     He did his best to remain stone-faced. "Hmm . . ."      

     Molly's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What? What is it?"      

     Sherlock made an exaggerated, unconcerned face. "Oh, nothing, I was just curious as to why you didn't give it to me at the cafe."      

     Her eyes danced away for a second. She swallowed.      

     "I-I didn't want to give it to you in front of John."      

     His lips pulled tight. Curious, he reached into the bag and pulled out a tube of . . . ointment? His brows twisted as he gazed down at it. Molly saw his expression, huffed and snatched it out of his hand. In the next tick, she sat down on the arm of his chair, twisted the lid off the tube and flicked up his chin with the heel of her thumb. Then, with an intense look of concentration, she squeezed a bit of the ointment on her index finger and reached for his brow. He flinched as she dabbed a bit of it over the stitched wound above his eye. It didn't hurt so much as it surprised him.      

     "Sorry," she mumbled as she inspected her handiwork, "but it will help reduce the scarring. I want you to put it on twice a day for the next four weeks-"      

     Sherlock sputtered a single laugh. "It's just a small cut! Trust me, I am not so vain that this will bother me if it scars."      

     Something twitched in Molly's face and she glanced down at her hands. He drew in a covert breath as he saw her shakily close up the tube again. Desperate to dispel her unspoken distress, he opted for teasing.      

     "Come, are you worried I won't be as pretty? I promise, I still will be."      

     Molly pressed her lips together to suppress a smile but her eyes lingered on the ointment. "You are such an arrogant cock, Sherlock Holmes."     

     He chuckled and absentmindedly pushed back the locks that kept escaping from her ponytail. Her cheeked jumped under the pads of his fingers before her eyes snapped up in surprise. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of the fact that she was nearly seated on his lap. His hand dropped to her shoulder and jittered there for a moment. Then, as if they had a mind of their own, his fingers curled around the back of her neck under her ponytail. His chest heaved as if he were trying to breathe under a heavy weight pinning him down. She blinked at him several times, her eyes searched his face.       

     "Sh-Sherlock?"      

     He sat up, inhaled several more lungfuls of air and started calculating. His brain whizzed with the solving of formulas; a coping mechanism, as if his subconscious was trying to distract him. It was futile. In the following heartbeat, he'd pulled her from the arm of the chair to his lap. His head descended and paused with his lips hovering just above her mouth. He was overwhelmed by his own actions and the thought of what came next, but he was powerless to resist it all the same. When she gasped, he finally kissed her.     

      _Molly._     

     Her lips were at first stunned but with a feather-lite coax by him, they quivered and began to move. He groaned and pulled her closer. His lips pressed more insistently on hers and teased them apart. His small doctor was no slouch. She dropped the tube she had been holding and wrapped her arms around his neck. Years of pent-up frustration opened liked floodgates and it was all he could do to keep up with her ardent response. Her lips were insatiable, greedy even. She was all tongues and wriggling and whimpering and he was lost. Before he knew it, his soul had taken flight and the world was left behind. It was Molly who brought him down again. After several moments, she rested her forehead against his cheek and panted for air. His hands vibrated on her neck and back. He didn't know what to do next. He had just kissed one of his best friends, something he had thought about doing but only ever in a semi-detached manner. Somehow he had known that it would be just like this - heady and intoxicating and mind-bending.       

     "Ha-ah, huh," Molly wheezed, "god."      

     "Mm, hmm," Sherlock murmured, "yup."      

     She raised her head to peer at him. Her large, brown eyes were luminous with shock.      

     "Th-That wasn't supposed to happen," she whispered, "I mean, I . . . I didn't expect that . . . from you."      

     Sherlock panicked. What did he say? He didn't know what it meant (aside from the inconvenient little fact that his world was forever altered). Did it mean something? What did he do now, he wondered frantically? A kind of flash of understanding flickered in Molly's eyes as she regarded him. She gulped back a breath and next thing he knew, he was embraced in a hug.     

     "Y-You're just . . . really appreciative of your present, right?" she prodded. "S'okay, you're welcome."      

     He wanted to say something else, anything else, but instead, he took the coward's way out.       

     "Thank-you for my gift, Molly."       

     "N-No problem, Sherlock."       

     His arms tightened around her. His Molly. _His._        

_"Oh, blast,"_ he thought, _"that's what it means."_


	34. What Happens Online

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has been messaging a fellow she met through a dating site. They’ve finally decided to meet one another on camera. This is a bit smutty! Be warned :)

_“You ready?”_ Molly thumbed into her phone.

Her phone dingled with a response.  _“More than ready. I know you are going to be well worth the wait.”_

Molly’s stomach fluttered. Three weeks she had been sexting a man she knew only as “ _HotCadfael_ ”. She didn’t know who he was or anything about him except that he had a wicked sense of humor, was ridiculously intelligent and always knew exactly what to message to get her especially randy.

Her Skype began to flash and pulse with an electronic jangle. Her stomach twisted in knots. What if he was ugly? What if he was not at all how he had described himself? The man acted like he had no guile whatsoever; he chatted in glowing terms about being tall, dark and handsome but what if it was all just talk? She let the ringing go for a few seconds as anxiety nearly overwhelmed her, then she quickly answered the call. She was too curious and hopeful to resist.

Immediately, an image flashed showing a lean, bare chest reclined against a chair. After a tingle of excitement, she breathed a sigh of relief and rapidly typed into her mobile.

_“I see you. Well, part of you!”_

_“I don’t see you, screen’s blank,”_ he typed back.

Molly bit her lip. She had put a post-it paper over the camera lens to conceal her identity.

_“I’m nervous,”_ she responded as she mulled over her keyboard,  _“I’m not ready to reveal myself yet.”_

_“Understandable. We can go slow. How about I talk a little first and we’ll go from there? Just sit back, listen to my voice and if you feel like answering, go right ahead,”_ the camera jostled around a bit and Molly got a view of his groin and an aroused shaft secured in a large hand, _“as you can see, I am already more than a little excited to meet you at long last.”_

Molly let out a squeak and frantically typed. _“OMG! You weren’t lying about your size!”_

The camera moved again and angled back up to just below the man’s chin. She gulped. He was really … _really, really_ fit. She groaned. She hoped his face was just as delectable as his body. She saw his chest heave and heard the first low rumble of laughter. The sound of it made her sit straight up. It was familiar. Her stomach flipped and flailed like a crab on its back.

“Mmm, pleased you like what you see,” a deep voice reverberated through the speakers.

Molly’s breath seized in her chest.

_“Say again?”_ she hammered into her keyboard.

“I said I am pleased that you like what you see.”

Molly’s hand covered her mouth for a few seconds. That voice! That unique baritone! It couldn’t be! It couldn’t … be … Sherlock. It just couldn’t! She sucked in several breaths.

_“Say something else, please,”_ she tapped each letter with vibrating fingers.

“What would you like me to say? Do you want me to list all of the things I would like to do with you? I warn you, it is quite extensive-”

“Oh my god,” Molly cried and whipped the post-it note from in front of her lens, “Sherlock, is that you?”

The man’s body tensed. Then she saw his hand reach for the camera and suddenly she regarded an intense gaze and lips pressed together in a taut line. It was Sherlock. When his eyes flicked up and down and it appeared to register who he was talking to, his nostrils flared and he flopped back against his chair again.

“Molly Hooper,” he muttered, “of course.”

Molly tugged up her sleeves into her palms nervously, curled her fingers until her hands were balls and covered the lower part of her face. Her shoulders felt like they were up around her ears. Her heart felt like it was going to explode in her chest.

“Y-You had no idea it was me?” Molly asked through her knuckles.

His brows twitched. His nose wrinkled.

“No, though it makes perfect sense in hindsight,” he responded dryly, “and you? You never suspected that I was … well, me?”

She shook her head. “No! Oh, Christ, I never in a million years would ever have fathomed that this would be something you engage in.”

Molly watched his shoulders lift in a shrug.

“Wh-What do we do?” she whispered after an awkward pause.

Sherlock stretched his neck and looked towards his groin. His hand was still just out of the camera’s view but she knew his fingers continued to encircle his cock. Heat flushed upwards from her chest to her neck and flooded her face as something skittered through his features and his eyes narrowed. Unexpectedly, his attention snapped back to his computer and she became his focus again.

He took a deep breath. “Come over.”

Molly’s belly quivered. “Wh-What?”

Sherlock sat forward. His chest heaved again.

“Molly … I have been fantasizing about this captivating goddess of smut texts and how I would convince her to meet me almost since the moment we started our exchange. Now I find out that this woman who has become my veritable obsession is, in fact … _you_.”

She swallowed. “You’re … you’re o-obsessed with me?”

His eyes slanted seductively. “Oh, yeeees, you’ve haunted my dreams as of late, you naughty minx. Please, will you come over?”

“R-Right now?” she breathed.

He nodded. “Mm hmm, we’ve wasted enough time, don’t you think?”


	35. I Love You - A Sherlolly AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alright, peeps, I have penned a short AU of that scene from, “The Final Problem” (last episode of Season 4 of Sherlock). In this version, Eurus has kidnapped Mycroft, John and Molly (instead of Sherlock) to force them all to participate in her little game …

 Molly swallowed against an ever-expanding mass in her throat. The sound of the gunshot reverberating off concrete walls still rattled her ears. The Governor’s empty eyes and the explosion of blood from the back of his head flashed in her mind again like fluff catching fire. She subconsciously touched her hand to her brow as if she were soothing a burn from the flare of witnessing such horror.

     Then she saw it as she crossed the threshold into another concrete tomb. The coffin. She stumbled from the shock of the sight. Her insides hollowed out as if they had combusted and what was left within her quivered like burnt paper in a tremulous breeze. An imagined vision of Sherlock’s body within the simple, wooden box gripped her and threatened to disperse her into a cloud of disintegrating flakes. John caught her elbow.

  "Molly," he mumbled, "Molly, I know you are brave and good and kind and do not deserve any of this but if anyone is going to survive this, it is you. It is just a job now, Molly. You're at work. Find that place you go to when you see the worst humanity has to offer-"

      The screen across from the coffin flicked on and Eurus' face popped up with a sardonic grin.

     "That's right, Doctor Molly," she cooed, "it's just a job. Now, be a good little pathy and scoot forward. You need to look inside and tell me what might have happened to the poor soul within."

     Molly's knees buckled and she felt Mycroft flank her other side. His hand cupped her other elbow.

     "Miss Hooper-"

     Eurus harrumphed through the speakers. "Doctor! That's Dr. Hooper!"

     The sing-song tone of their tormentor's voice irritated Molly all of a sudden. There was no respect in Eurus' correction of Mycroft, it was as if her "doctor" was uttered in amusement. Molly's legs and spine stiffened like hydraulics and she straightened. She shook of the assistance of her companions and shuffled forward. A heavy sigh of relief passed her lips when she saw that the coffin was empty. Then, her heart rate spiked again. There were bits. Bits of flesh and fat and bone. They were almost too small to see but she recognized them from the aerosol-type spray one might observe on the ceiling and walls after an explosive attack. Her stomach turned.

     "Go on," Eurus' voice was high with almost a child-like excitement. "Go on! Tell them."

     Molly's eyes snapped up at the screen for a few seconds. That voice. Her eyes constricted as she stared at Eurus. Eurus' features tightened and her smile fell away. A wrinkle appeared between her brows.

     "Tell them," her voice deepened threateningly.

     Molly sucked in a breath and looked sideways to Mycroft. "It's a bomb. I mean, a bombing. Someone was blown up near this. I've seen this kind of . . . spray before. Surely, y-you know the incidents I am talking about."

     Mycroft's lips pulled into a taut line. He didn't say a word. He just teetered back against the wall and put his head in his hands before growling.

     "Is it Sherlock?" he shouted at the roof. "D-Did you kill him? Is that what you brought us all here to see?"

     Eurus laughed. "Pfft! Wha-at?"

     She rolled her eyes and waved her gun around. 

     "Did I kill him? Ha! Did I kill him? God, Jim was right. You are all so boring and predictable." She leaned forward over her desk and puckered her lips for a moment. "Why would I just kill Sherlock? Indeed, why would I do that when I can  _vivisect_  him?"

     John stepped forward and started cussing at Eurus but she slammed the butt of her gun on the desk. She looked positively murderous for a moment but she composed herself and smiled.

     "Sssh, ssssh. Shush, John. Step back." 

      When John didn’t immediately acquiesce, she repeated her command more forcefully. "Step. Back. Remember the plane, John! This task is for Molly and Molly alone. Now pay attention, little doctor. I have placed a bomb at Baker Street with Sherlock. He's there right now."

      A scene of Sherlock sitting in his chair in his parlor overtook the screen. Molly felt her eyes sting. He looked so handsome and contemplative and so very classically Sherlock in his favorite seat wearing his tan dressing gown. She was relieved to see him alive but in agony at the thought she might never see him again in person. There were so many things she wanted to say, so many words left unsaid . . .

      Molly's hand clutched her chest. "What d-do you want me to do?"

      Eurus appeared again. She licked her tongue over her teeth. 

      "We're going to call him, of course! The fun part comes next. I need for you to to get Sherlock to make a confession."

      Molly frowned. "What? What kind of confession?"

      Eurus swung back in her chair and put her feet on her desk. "Mycroft? Big brother, be a love, would you?"

      Molly glanced to Mycroft who stared back bewildered for a few ticks. Then, he looked around and realized there was something leaning against the wall next to him. He picked it up and brought it forward. The colour drained from his face as he turned the lid of the coffin towards Molly.

_"I LOVE YOU,_ " read the inscription on a silvery plaque.

     Molly spun back to Eurus. She opened her mouth to protest but Eurus held up a hand.

     "No excuses. You know why you all were chosen. Dr. Molly, I am going to give you three minutes to get Sherlock to say those three little words. Listen, you two! John! Mycroft! You are to keep quiet. Say nothing. If Sherlock at all suspects what is going on, I will end him. Capiche? No need to answer. Just nod."

     To her left and right, John and Mycroft nodded and stepped back. Molly huffed a breath, gritted her teeth and nodded as well. Almost the moment her chin came up again, she could see Sherlock on the screen and there arose the sound of a phone ringing over the speakers. Juxtaposed with him on the screen was a digital timer counting down her three minutes. Molly’s heart began pounding so madly she almost couldn't hear what was going on. On screen, Sherlock's phone started to flash and he reached to turn it towards him. His brow twitched on his face and he gazed down at the device with an odd, blank expression. A muscle flecked in his jaw. His finger fiddled with the top of the mobile.

      "Wh-Why isn't he picking it up?" John gasped.

      Molly made a face at him over her shoulder and felt her heart squeeze painfully. "Be-Because it's  _me_  calling."

      The phone stopped ringing. For a few seconds, Molly felt like she had been pushed off a cliff. 

     "Alright, alright, let's try one more time!" Eurus chuckled.

     The phone dialed again.

      "Come on, Sherlock," John muttered, "pick up the damn phone."

      Jim Moriarty's comical face interjected for a few seconds with a flashing, red filter over it. "Tick, tock, tick, tock. NO PRESSURE!"

     "Pick up, Sherock!" Mycroft rasped.

      "Hello, what is it, Molly? I'm busy," Sherlock said as he lounged back in his chair and waved a hand around.

      Molly cleared her throat. Tears burned again. 

     "Sh-Sherlock, hello! Sorry to be a bother.”

     "Well, be quick, would you? I'm in the middle of something very important," he said as he picked lint from his dressing gown.

     Molly resisted the urge to call him a wanker and took a breath. "Erm, well, I need you to do something for me. Could you? I mean, please? See, I'm having a bit of fun with some friends of mine. We're playing a game. Well, straight up, they dared me to get you to say something. So, would you say, ah, these words for me. Say, um, ahem. I-I love you."

       Sherlock froze in his chair. Then, he seemed to take a shuddering breath and hunched forward over his mobile on the side table. His face was suddenly very dark and serious.

     "Pardon?"

      Molly tittered a nervous laugh. "It's nothing. Just silly, really. Help me win, eh, Sherlock? I'll win if you say it."

      There was a long silence. Precious seconds ticked away.

     "I can't," his deep voice reverberated over the speakers.

     Molly laughed again. "Go on, why can't you?"

     He pushed a hand back over his curls. His lip jerked at one side.

     "You know why."

     Molly's breaths felt like soup in her lungs. "Sherlock, please, you can say it. They're just words. Trust me. We're friends. I know we're friends. I won't read anything into it."

      "That's not why I can't say that to you."

      Molly stepped forward towards the television. Her fingers hovered over the screen at the side of his face. She could hardly breathe.

      "Sherlock. Please-"

      His head dropped again. "Molly, I can't say that to you. Not _you_."

     "Wh-Why?"

     His shoulders slumped. His head was nearly on the table. She could hear his heavy breaths in the speakers.

      "Because . . . because it's true. You know it's true."

     Molly felt a kindling of anger in her chest. She knew that was what Eurus wanted her to feel but she couldn't tamp it down. He loved her? All that time? Why had he hidden it? Why had he left her to suffer her own unrequited love?

     "Well, if it's true, just say it anyway!" she challenged him with an edge to her voice.

     He snorted. "Are you drunk?"

     The screen was interrupted by Jim's hissing. "Thirty seconds!"

     Molly heard an intake of breath at her back and quashed down her panic.

     "No, no, I am not drunk. Please, I'm sorry, please. Just say it. Say it."

     "You first."

     Molly was struck silent.

     "You say it first, Molly. Say it like you  _believe_  it."

     "Well, that's easy," she breathed.

     Yet suddenly, it wasn't so easy. Tears stung like vinegar had been splashed in her eyes. She blinked several times. What Eurus was doing was cruel. It was sick. Molly shouldn't have to say it like that. It should be her precious gift to give, not some throwaway set of words.

      _"Not like this,"_  she lamented to herself. 

     She had always envisioned gazing into his eyes and holding his hands so he could feel the words as much as hear them. He looked defeated. He was shaking. She thought she might vomit. 

     "Molly?" his voice cracked as his head lifted and she saw a sheen in his eyes.

     "I . . . I l-love you, Sherlock," she rushed out.

     Her hand curled into her chest. She wanted to dig out her own heart to make it stop lurching from one beat to the next like a mortally injured bird. Would be believe it? She didn’t just want him to hear it, they weren’t just words to her.

     "I love you," she said more deliberately.

     When he didn't answer, she nearly screamed his name. "Sherlock? Sherlock, please!"

     On the television, he picked up the phone and brought it to his lips. The last few seconds ticked away. Molly thought every cell in her body was going to rupture.

     "I love you," Sherlock mumbled into the phone.

     The line went dead with one second remaining. For a moment, Molly was stunned and she pivoted away.

     "Dr. Hooper, however hard that was-" Mycroft began.

     Molly inhaled a ragged breath and whirled towards where Eurus occupied the screen. "I did it! I did it. I got him to say it! I saved him. You didn't think he would but he did. I beat your game. I beat it."

      Eurus shook her head with her mouth slightly open. "Beat my game? Molly Hooper, have you looked very closely at that coffin? It's not for Sherlock, is it?"

      Molly stepped towards the coffin and picked up the lid. She placed it on top with shaking hands and gaped down at it. Eurus was correct, the coffin was for someone smaller. In fact, it was something Molly might choose for her own entombment. She covered her mouth. There was a personal threat implicit in this whole scenario she hadn’t anticipated. Eurus didn’t mean for her to survive.

      "And you wouldn't commission that inscription for yourself, would you?" Eurus murmured with a quiver of glee in her voice. "See, I knew he would say it. I knew he would have to _feel_  it. Look what you did to him, Molly Hooper. Your loss will break his heart."

      Eurus started humming. 

     "Alrighty, then! This was informative but we have more to do. Onwards and upwards,” she sang. “In your own time."

      With that, the screen went black. Molly spread her fingers over the top of the coffin as John and Mycroft moved towards the newly opened exit. 

      "Molly?"

       "No." She flicked her ponytail. "No!"

      With a kick she didn't know she had in her, she booted the coffin from its perch to the floor. It cracked as it fell and she jumped directly on the lid, busting it in half. Then she kicked and stomped and smashed the repulsive prop until it was flattened before she slumped against the wall in a fit of tears. She didn't know how long she sat sobbing there until John extended his hand.

       "It's just a rough night on the emergency ward," John posited. "We’re professionals, yeah? Doctors?"

       Molly slapped a hand into his and dipped her head. "D-Doctors."


	36. The Drone, A Christmas Sherlolly Short

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some extreme Christmas-themed fluff.

     Molly sighed as she looked over at Sherlock. What a disappointment their “stroll” had turned out to be. She had been so excited to accept his invitation for a lunchtime walk (especially when the alternative was to attend a singles Christmas brunch that her friend Meena had set up). However, the contemplative detective had hardly spoken two words to her since they had left Barts. Instead, he kept muttering to himself and glancing at the sky. Finally, Molly decided she’d had enough.

    “Alright, Sherlock, this has been nice but I ought to get back to work,” she muttered as she abruptly ceased walking.

    Sherlock stopped, padded back and swivelled his face from the sky with a deep frown. He checked his watch.

    “You have twenty-seven minutes before you must return to your lab,” he murmured. “Scratch three for the return and that leaves you with twenty-four minutes of availability.”

     She cleared her throat. “I was going to grab a coffee from the cafeteria so-”

     His nose wrinkled. “Twenty then.”

     Molly huffed a breath. “Arg, to be honest, Sherlock, I do not even know why you bothered asking me to go on this walk. I mean, if you need something, just spit it out. Otherwise, you seem distracted and I have better things to do than tottle on after you while you fret about something.”

     His pale eyes narrowed. “Better things? Like speed-dating at an ugly Christmas sweater lunch?”

     Molly’s mouth fell open a second. “How did you- you know what? Never mind! See you later, Sherlock.”

     She whirled and began walking away. Almost at the same moment, tiny flakes drifted lazily in her path. It was beginning to snow. Perfect, she thought, the commute home would probably be a mess.

     "Wait! Molly, I am sorry … it’s Mycroft …“

     Molly was not deterred until she heard a faint whirr from somewhere above. She glanced up but could only see flakes upon flakes against an ever-encroaching white sky. She picked up her pace but didn’t manage more than a few feet when something black suddenly dropped in front and hovered in her path. Her hands flew up instinctively.

     "Wh-What the hell-?” She skidded to a stop before peaking dumbfounded over her hands at a small drone.

    Sherlock skipped up beside her and attempted to grab the device but it flew up a few feet just out of his reach.

     "What is going on!?“ Molly asked breathlessly as her pounding heart settled back down.

     Sherlock glowered at the offending craft. "It’s Mycroft, or at least, I am ninety-nine percent sure he has been following me with that contraption since I left Baker Street to come see you.”

     "Why?“ Molly sputtered as snowflakes were caught and flung from around the drone’s rotating blades.

     Sherlock slipped off his scarf and tried to whip the drone but he couldn’t land a hit. "I have my theories.”

     Molly huffed. The last thing she needed was to get involved in whatever drama was going on between the Holmes’.

     "Well, yeah, okay. I have to go.“

     Yet, when she attempted to renew her departure, the little spy craft flew in her path again. She took a step towards it but it buzzed at her as it to shepherd her retreat.

     "I think he has some vested interest in us talking, Molly,” Sherlock grumbled.

     Molly spun and poked her finger at him. A frigid blast of downdraft from the drone set her teeth rattling.

     "S-S-So t-talk,“ she commanded.

     A furrow marred Sherlock’s brow. He stepped closer and looped his scarf over her head. It had the unintended (or intended?) result of drawing her almost against his chest. His fingers busied with arranging the soft cashmere around her neck. Molly felt instantly warmer, though not because of the scarf. Sherlock’s gaze didn’t immediately meet hers. He seemed to stare at his hands a moment. His lips twitched with a thought.

     "I can only assume that Mycroft has deduced why I came to see you today, even though I was not certain of exactly what I planned to do until this very moment.’

      Molly shook her head. Her thoughts had gone a bit cloudy. Sherlock had a manner of speaking, in tone and excessive eloquence, which was mesmerizing.

      "Uh-huh?” she whispered, not taking her eyes from his lips.

       He was so close. She swallowed. She did not think they had ever stood this near.

       "Molly,“ Sherlock’s voice was as deep as the depths of an ocean abyss, "I meant what I said.”

       She licked her lips nervously. “Ahm, yeah, that I count? I’ve always counted o-or something. W-We’ve established this, haven’t we?”

      He gave his head an almost imperceptible shake. “No, I meant what I said on the phone. You asked me to ’ _say it like you mean it’_. Well, I. Meant. It.”

      Molly’s eyes registered the shock before her brain could catch up. As the words sank through her consciousness like hot syrup splashed over ice, she felt her orbs burn from their enlargement. She looked up from his lips and was ensnared by a very seriously intent set of pupils fixed on her expression.

      “You said you love me,” she rasped like Gollum hearing his name for the first time in five-hundred years.

      He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

      “You love me,” she repeated.

      “I love you.”

       Molly’s mind was spinning. Spinning, it was a whirling dervish! Then the unwelcome whine of the drone cut through her tumultuous thoughts. She blinked up at it.

       "Oh, my god! I can’t even- go away!“

       Instead, a little hatch opened up and a frond of some sort fell out and dangled from the underside of the drone.

       "Good Lord, Mycroft,” Sherlock griped, “all this for opportunistic  _mistletoe_?”

       Of course, there was no rejoinder from the craft. The drone continued to hover insistently. With a sigh, Sherlock shook his head and cupped her face. His thumbs caressed her cheeks gently. His eyes scanned her visage as if memorizing every detail.

       "Come with me to my parent’s house for Christmas, Molly, please. Do not make me endure them on my own.“

       Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Y-You love me?”

        He nodded. He looked like a dark angel with snowflakes clinging to his curls.

        “How many times must I say it until it’s established?”

        She smiled through her tears. “Oh, countless, I imagine.”

        Sherlock grinned. “Then you will come home with me?”

        “Yes,” she sniffled and peeped up, “a-are you going to make use of that mistletoe?”

        His left brow crooked. “Hmm, I suppose Mycroft went to a spot of trouble for it. Illegal airspace and all.”

        Molly began nodding but before she could even get through the first incline of her head, Sherlock’s mouth swooped over hers. Plush, firm lips moved against her own with a tremor as if they held back a swell of passion. She clutched the lapels of his Belstaff and kissed him back like she was experiencing the initial melt of a chocolate truffle. He pulled back panting after just a few glorious seconds. When they glanced up, the drone was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock chuckled and kissed her again briefly.

        “That might have been a bit more than he was expecting.”

        Molly wrapped her arms around Sherlock and hugged him. “I can’t believe it. I-Is he really so sentimental?”

        She felt Sherlock’s chin nod on the top of her head. “Mm hmm, but you haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until you meet my mother.”

        Molly looked up at Sherlock again. “Should I be afraid?”

        He shook his head. “No … you have me.”

        Her eyes stung again. “I love you, Sherlock.”

        “And I love you, Molly Hooper.”


End file.
